


In a Library With Red Doors

by clarasimone



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Edwardian, Alternate Universe - Library, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blushing, Books, Dancing, Erotica, F/M, Feelings, Librarian!Daenerys, Love, Passionate Sex, Poetry, Professor!Jorah, Romance, Secrets Revealed, The Voice, True Love, UST, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, Words, and princess' beds for slumber, but not right away, going to the Ball, ladders are not simply made for fetching books, oh! and some humour too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:07:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 23,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26237611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clarasimone/pseuds/clarasimone
Summary: At the turn of the 20th Century, in an ivy-covered college hidden in one of Queen Victoria's dominions, a retired officer now teaching poetry—Professor Jorah Mormont— sees his world, and his heart, turn upside down when he meets the new Head Librarian of his college, Daenerys Targaryen. They woo each other in their Library with red doors; a Library where Time is fluid and passion burns bright. But when their past catches up with them, will love prevail ?
Relationships: Jorah Mormont/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 172
Kudos: 61
Collections: Jorleesi Equinox Exchange -Fall 2020





	1. The Tell-Tale Heart (Edgar Allan Poe)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Terisrog](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terisrog/gifts).



> ****** Though this fiction is rated E because of the passionate and explicit loves scenes in Chapter 10 and 11, the other chapters are rated Teen, with a soft M in chapter 7 for loooooove reasons.******
> 
> The titles of the chapters refer to books which find an echo in the narrative, sometime through direct references, sometimes through metaphors :-)
> 
> Dear Terisrog, I felt such a strong calling from your very first prompt that... I never read the others ! May the resulting story touch and nestle in your heart, for ever and a day. The journey, for me, was an amazing joyride and horizon-opener as I had never before written a true multi-chapter fiction where I could indulge in Romance. I relished following the bread crumbs leading to your secret garden... which, in truth, closely resembles mine. So, here we go !
> 
> For the benefit of the visiting reader, the prompt read as follows:
> 
> Request 1 by Terisrog
> 
> Any Rating
> 
> Dear Creator,
> 
> Perhaps like you, I connected with Jorah and Daenerys from the moment Jorah gave a pile of books to Daenerys. So any creation focusing on books would make me very happy: books themselves, Jorah/Daenerys being a librarian/book seller, bookshops, reading — anything at all with books, in any universe.
> 
> What I especially love:  
> * Feelings (lots)  
> * Eternal lovers  
> * Balance and play between who supports/teaches/seduces/etc. the other  
> * The Voice  
> * Romantic and sensual attraction  
> * Slow burrrrrn through seduction and then fireworks (of a sexual nature or not)  
> * Hurt/Comfort
> 
> Not my cup of tea:  
> * Established relationship (unless there's still a strong element of seductive play)  
> * Domestic/Family scenes  
> * Unrequited love (I'm fine for angst over this, but please no actual lack of reciprocity)  
> * Complex ensemble cast that gets more focus overall than J/D  
> * PWP/sexual attraction only  
> * Character death (except if their love is still shared, by way of a ghost or any such device)
> 
> ********************************************************************************************************************************

He would always pause, just before crossing the threshold. It was his ritual. Not a superstitious one; rather some form of reverence and acknowledgement.

The Library was Professor Mormont’s lair. His _thin_ place, a portal where time could stop, like his heartache, because words were his solace and his refuge. Every book was a chance to start anew. Every book read like a path. There was light in them. And longing, too, which of course always ended up feeling like _chagrin…_ but mixed with _frisson._

Jorah Mormont sighed, his mind lingering for a moment.

Words had become his only passion. But they were also how he made his living, since leaving the 11th Hussars, Prince Albert’s Own, one of Queen Victoria’s most distinguished regiment. He now taught poetry, an ocean away, in an ivy-covered college that enabled him to vanish. What would his old sabered mates think of him? Frankly, he didn’t care. Today, he was holding a treasure bundle in his hands, and he couldn’t wait to share it with his colleague and mentor, Professor Barristan Selmy.

So, Mormont glanced down at his well-worn oxfords, at the foot of the stairs leading to the red doors of the Library and then, looking up at the rose-stoned medallion greeting visitors, he read its verse for the umpteenth time: “There is no frigate like a book to bear us leagues away.” And he smiled. He smiled one of those soft and nostalgic smiles that made his female students—and some males too—secretly swoon when they saw it curve the inside of his ginger gruff, as he read Shelley or Keats.

Only then did Professor Mormont ascend the stairs like a hero returning to Valyria.

**

Walking briskly but silently, Jorah pushed the oak and glass doors leading to the main reading room. There, he breathed in the warm smell of vellum and leather bindings the way other men breathed in mountain air. It awakened all his senses. Nodding to a few staff members, he made his way to the back offices, up an intricate spiral staircase made of wrought iron until, a spring in his gait, he entered, unannounced, the office of the Head Librarian.

“Barristan, old boy, drop everything, I…”

The rest of Jorah’s sentence trailed off, until it hung expectantly in the dust; the stardust twirling through the shafts of light falling on a most astonishing vision. An angel. A silver-haired angel lifting violet eyes towards him from documents a secretary was presently showing her.

“Thank you Unella, I’ll sign these later. May I help you, Ser…?”

“Barristan…?” Jorah whispered, looking quite dazed, not even noticing the stern secretary leaving the room.

“No, you’re not,” the silver angel retorted, trying to curb her smile.

“I’m sorry?”

“You are not Ser Barristan. _I_ am replacing Ser Barristan, and having met him—however briefly—I am quite certain you are not him, though you are just as distinguished looking—if I may say so myself. Which, having a mind of my own, I tend to do; it’s a family trait, I’m afraid. Targaryen. And you are…?”

 _Charmed? Entranced?_ There was a lull instead of an answer, and Daenerys saw it be filled with the most unabashed awestruck expression a man had ever _not_ even tried to hide in front of a woman. (Years later, this moment was to be retold in much detail to enraptured audiences by its recipient.)

“Mormont,” the owner of that look managed to say; his voice breaking before finding its baritone again, just as his silhouette rose to its full height, to add, quite proudly so, “Ser Jorah Mormont. At your service, Miss, Mrs, Miss…” The bashfulness was back, and he didn’t quite know how to hide it.

“Ms…”

“ _Miz_ ,” the unknown expression took on a beautiful gravitas in the Professor’s mouth, “Ms Targaryen, you find me at my worst, having barged in quite unannounced, and at a disadvantage, as my friend, Ser Barristan, seems to have forgotten to inform me of his… indisposition?”

“Retirement.”

“Retirement. Lovely. Did not bother to tell me.” Trying to keep his irritation, embarrassment _and_ glowering in check, for the sake of lovely Ms Targaryen who, if she had an ounce of pity, would stop looking at him with those amused and ravishing eyes, Jorah sighed briefly, then confessed: “This meeting is unfolding in the very worst possible way, is it not?”

Which made Daenerys Targaryen laugh, a beautiful laugh which brightened the whole of Barristan Selmy’s severe office and left Jorah disarmed once more. What manner of free spirit was this astonishing young woman?

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that… _Ser Jorah Mormont_.”

His name, spoken like a Queen knighting him. Her voice, reverberating into his very soul. Suddenly, Jorah Mormont was not at all sure he would survive this interview. But his tormentor spoke again.

“What are you holding in your arms, Ser? Might I have a look? It seems a treasure I wouldn’t mind pilfering from my predecessor.”

His books! He had almost forgotten about them. Holding the three beautiful antique volumes between his large, graceful hands, Jorah found his composure; the true purpose of his visit anchoring him in the here and now, and giving him the self-confidence to actually shine. Daenerys felt his magnetism when he bowed down close to her, his bundle in offer: “Songs and Histories From the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Oh! But these are… these are…”

“Legendary, yes!”

How flustered and excited Ms Targaryen looked suddenly. It constricted Jorah’s heart in the most delicious of ways. Seeing her hands next to his, as they both cradled the rare volumes, Jorah was moved suddenly and, raising his eyes to the new Head Librarian, he saw that she was too.

So, for the first time since having met her, he felt them on par, bound over something mysterious and profound.

“The Seven Kingdoms,” Daenerys whispered. “Are you then… from my country, Ser?” she added, accepting the books, and laying them softly, reverently, on her desk, her hand brushing over them.

“Aye,” because he seemed to have recognized her accent. “Though, I hail from Bear Island. You might not have heard of it. It’s quite remote.”

“Oh, I love islands. The more remote the better. Where else can one be truly themselves…”

“Unencumbered and free…”

“To start anew.”

**

Is this how they both had come to live so far from home, as expatriates in one of Queen Victoria’s dominions? There was mystery surrounding their pasts but none of them had yet found the courage, or even the inclination, it seemed, to voice the questions they should or could ask. Whenever they’d meet, over an inquiry, some book Jorah needed for his class or—and this was their favorite moment of the day—sparring over some passage from the Seven Kingdoms volumes, they’d bask in what was left unsaid between them. It was as alluring and aphrodisiac as what was spoken. Nay—more so, since what was said remained quite proper, and serious, and academic. Even when Ms Targaryen’s double _entendres_ left Jorah blinking behind his reading spectacles, before he’d lower his head to hide his blush.

Dimples on such a towering bear of a man, _how disarming_ , Daenerys would tell herself, looking at Jorah, quite smitten.

One evening in particular…

“Professor?”

Daenerys loved calling Jorah by his title. He certainly deserved it. He was so learned and such the consummate teacher, patient and generous with the students she saw him mentor in the working alcoves of the Library.

“Precious,” she had heard him pronounce one day, as he lifted his glance to her, during a session with Grey, a young foreign student. She had been walking by, the pink silk of her dress whispering after her, like her smile upon Jorah’s word. Was it by chance, this sashaying of hers into the very heart of his private lecture?

No, surely not. Not when, in fact, it felt ineluctable.

And how wonderful that fleeting moment when their eyes had locked, and Daenerys had discovered herself the secret object of the lesson. “Precious”—the word had made her hold her breath; the velvet voice uttering it… blush. _Precious_ —it was the very subtext she meant to convey every time she called Jorah “Professor”.

Daenerys wondered if _her Professor_ heard the purr she put in the rolls of the “r” and the warm caress she wished upon him in the softness of the “f” and “ss.”

Oh! If Jorah could hear it? He _heard it_ and it made his heart beat a little faster.

He also heard something more, something dangerous: laughter. Laughter in Daenerys’ tone, like drops of sunshine, teasing him. It always left him on the brink of uncertainty. Wondering if she was sweetly mocking him, the way she did all men, in fact, with wit and elegance. Or if this was how she’d say the word in the morning light, with a radiant smile on her lips… from the pillows of their bed.

He couldn’t help it.

He couldn’t stop those images from blinding him, especially when he’d hear her call him “Professor” unexpectedly. The way she had, just now, breaking the silence of the deserted reading room, without having given him time to prepare, time to raise his shield, as it were, to stop… on the threshold of _her_. He just hoped she wouldn’t read all of that, all of _him_ , when he’d look at her.

“I brought you tea.”

Bravely, his eyes went from the simmering china cup set before him, to the violet stare waiting for him.

“Oh! Ms Targaryen… How kind of you.”

“Daenerys. I wish you would call me Daenerys, Professor.”

 _Daenerys_ … Just before taking her lips, in the sunshine, on their pillows.

 _Stop!_ Yet he said it.

“Daenerys…”

She had prepared for it. Hearing Jorah say her name. Or she thought she had. But… the sheer physicality of it! The rumble of his voice, on those three syllables, like butterscotch melting and caressing her skin until its silkiness pooled, not at her feet, but in the secret of her. _Oh gods!_ She suddenly felt weak.

“Daenerys, won’t you sit down?”

And she did, just in the nick of time.

 _Right next to him_ , Jorah observed, and bringing with her the subtle scent of some white flower… which he could not quite identify. He was distracted by the rest: Daenerys setting one of her hands on the back of his chair, right next to his shoulder, while her head tilted down, to better see what he was working on.

And what was it again?

Something he was already forgetting, surely, to be replaced by her profile: the rosy blush on her cheek, gently grazed by the shadow of her long lashes as her glance fell on his writing, her full lips parting, just now, to form silent words. And her artery beating underneath the porcelain of her skin, her neck so dangerously close.

What had happened to Victorian high collars? Had fashion changed overnight, leaving him helpless? It had, hadn’t it? But of course, it had. It had been 1898 when he stepped inside the Library, and now it was 1910. It was anytime, it was _every time_ , with her. And now Daenerys wore a soft chiffon Edwardian dress, with a squarish décolletage cut low enough to showcase her delicate collarbones and the nascent curb of her neck. _Was that even legal_ _?_ Jorah thought, his Adam’s apple hurting like hell.

‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all,’ he heard Daenerys recite. “Tennyson, Professor?”

“Yes, indeed.”

_Oh thank you, yes, let’s speak of someone else’s suffering._

“I’m having the hardest time convincing my students of the wisdom behind those words.”

Daenerys was nodding, listening intently to Jorah, but then she added: “Could it be, Professor, that your students don’t yet know that, sometimes, imagination is a poor substitute for experience?”

Or: _Have you loved and lost, Professor_? _Is this how you know Tennyson’s words to be true?_

Daenerys was peering into Jorah’s blue eyes, searching his past there, but they yielded nothing but softness… and curiosity, when he spoke again.

“And you know about their lack of intuition… from intuition or experience, Ms Targaryen?” _Have you ever known love… _“Daenerys?” he corrected himself, his voice—dropping some octaves on her true name.

Could they be more arcane?

Not answering that rhetorical question, Daenerys was holding her breath. How did Jorah manage to make his tone go from sweet academic tease, biting into the “Ms,” to something much more intimate, investing her name with such burning, embracing concern?

Daenerys was willing to spend the rest of her life discovering how.

But, in the meantime, hours glided by, more tea was brewed, and the conversation once more slipped from poetry to the Seven Kingdoms, its lore and, this evening, the legend of the Khalasar.

“As usual,” Daenerys ironically remarked, “there are pages and pages about Khals, but what of their wives? Had this culture no sense of matriarchy? Women can, and have ruled…”

“Wait, you’ve not read the third volume yet, they did have one _spectacular_ …”

A very loud clang interrupted Jorah, that of the midnight janitor dropping his cleaning bucket in surprise at discovering the two scholars, in the semi-darkness of the Library, and in close proximity. Of course, seeing the old man’s shocked expression whipped back some sense of propriety into the culprits. Well, into the Professor, at any rate.

“Oh! Daenerys…” Jorah murmured, his face very close to hers, then catching himself and pulling back his chair to get to his feet and help the Head Librarian do the same, he cleared his voice to be heard by their unlikely chaperon: “Ms Targaryen, it is so very late. I’ve kept you… I’m…”

“No, please, Professor, I was only too grateful for your manly presence. One is always in need of protection.”

Keeping a straight face would have been a nice touch, Jorah thought, looking at Daenerys playact terribly for the benefit of the janitor… who was thankfully retreating into the shadows of some alley, grumbling to himself.

“Being a helpless female is such a burden…” Daenerys nonetheless added, before breaking into a contagious smart-alecky smile that made Jorah playfully glower at her.

“May I, at least, accompany you to _actual_ safety?” he ended up whispering.

“You mean to my flat?” Daenerys asked candidly, cocking her head; her straightforward question, and gesture, somehow making Jorah lose some of his countenance.

“Yes, indeed. That is, if the offer strikes you as being… proper. I mean, I am respectfully proposing to, _yes_ , walk you home.”

“Oh! How very kind of you.” Why was she still smiling impishly? “But we’re already here. I mean I live here. In the Library.”

“You live… in the Library?”

This was the most fantastical statement Jorah had heard in a very long time.

There were people who could _live_ in libraries? Why had he never even dared conjure up the possibility? _His_ Library came with living quarters? And Daenerys had her home there? A kitchen with lovely tea cups, a cozy inglenook to bring a few books with her to read by the fireplace, a washbasin, no, maybe even a full bathroom to… to take leisurely baths… after a long day… letting the warm water _caress_ her… and… and surely the flat came with a bed too. She had a bed here. Made up with soft linens that smelled of her. He died a little inside: _she had a bed here?_

“Oh yes, Professor, let me show you.”

_Oh please, she had not heard his thoughts, had she?_

But without waiting for him to regain his senses, Daenerys tugged on his hand to bring him along. Up they went, on the iron staircase he knew already, and then past her office, down a dark corridor leading to another spiral staircase which he climbed after her… and not without a tingling sense of impropriety as Daenerys hips swayed in front of him. Why did this feel like the lamb leading the wolf? They were rewriting faerie tales these days. Emancipated female writers. He knew about those but had not read them yet and… _Oh do shut up!_ Jorah was annoying himself. _Concentrate!_

“Here we are!”

Daenerys was standing in front of two very ornate French doors, flanked by similar floor to ceiling windows for walls, the portal of which dazzled with its delicate arabesques, in keeping with the arts & craft architecture of the building. Unless it was now Art Nouveau? Her “flat”, as she called it, was in fact a hanging glasshouse, set at the very end of a suspended mezzanine giving onto the expanse of the whole Library. It looked like something out of Jules Verne or some sorceress’ boudoir, or Rapunzel’s romantic cell, if Daenerys ever felt like letting her long silver tresses down, for him to climb to her. _Oh Gods, could his imagination let him be, just for once?_

Well, _no_.

Because with the gas light flickering from behind the frosted window panes hiding the interior, but making it seem _so_ inviting, Jorah was left swallowing hard and forgetting to breathe. He was transfixed by the soft glow illuminating Daenerys’ silhouette, as she clasped her hands in front of her, smiling up sweetly at him.

“How perfect,” Jorah whispered, his hand briefly touching his spectacles.

Daenerys’ smile broadened on Jorah’s unabashed mesmerized expression. He could be so transparent, and innocent-looking… and clueless, as to the effect he had on those he charmed this way, herself most of all.

“Well, I must thank you for yet another delightful evening, and for having so bravely accompanied me up the ramparts to my castle… Sweet Ser,” Daenerys said brightly, her voice softening into a murmur upon her last words, as she raised her hand to Jorah like a Lady to her Knight.

Slipping easily into character, so much so it seemed to be his natural state, Jorah took the fingers being offered into his own… and time stopped. His thumb lightly caressing Daenerys’ silky knuckles, the Knight held captive his Queen’s glance, before bowing to kiss her hand with a fervor betraying the depth of his feelings for her.

“You need but ask… Khaleesi.”

_What was that?_

“Khaleesi,” Jorah repeated, his eyes lifting to Daenerys, from his kiss.

_Oh! Had she wondered out loud?_

“It’s what the Dothraki called their Queen,” Jorah added, rising to his full height now, and not letting go of Daenerys’ hand. “It’s what I was about to explain, before the jani—”

“Say it again?” she breathed, bridging the gap between their bodies.

With only their joined hands lifted between them stopping this from being called an embrace, Jorah counted a few heartbeats before answering, his eyes drinking the light from Daenerys, and his breath catching hers.

“ _Khaleesi_ …”

Such promises in that single word, the rest could only pale in comparison. And tug at her heart.

“I bid you goodnight,” she heard him say. Oh, it tugged _everywhere_.

Until the pain began to feel like hope: “Good night, Ser Jorah.”


	2. Lady Chatterley's Lover (D.H. Lawrence)

Daenerys was in love. She never thought it would actually happen to her because… _because of so many things_ , she thought to herself, her mind trailing off.

 _But one of those_ , she told herself, as she perked up, was because of how whole and content she felt, as she was now, in her new life, and in this most magical and mystical Library which she saw as an extension of herself. It had everything she needed for her subsistence! It had books, and more books, each one of them a universe in itself, a door to step through, that led to gardens full of ideas to make her brain implode and her spirit soar. The Library had light too, inner light, and actual light, made all the more vibrant by the colored stained-glass windows of which she now knew every hue by heart. Even the older ones, the more ominous ones which left her wondering… And the Library also had plants; soft violets, that grew in the shadows under reading lamps. And it had visitors! Every day.

She never felt lonely. There were young minds, learning and growing, for whom she was getting new books and had commissioned special study rooms, encouraging and inspiring them herself with her indomitable spirit. She loved to see them grow. And there were older visitors too, come to reflect. Some of them, she suspected, had even vanished between the rows, merging with Knowledge itself. But, most of all, her Library had Jorah.

Ser Jorah, who was the first one in and the last one out.

Daenerys did not need to fall in love with him, because she already had him. He belonged to her because he belonged to the Library. And yet…

And yet, she had _fallen in love_ with him. With that part of him that escaped her, that part of him with which he wrote his own story. No matter how great her imagination, Daenerys knew her Knight, the Professor, remained an actual man, made of flesh and blood and… Oh! how the realness of him disturbed her, in the most wonderful ways.

To say that his eyes were blue was to say nothing if one didn’t stop to describe, in minute details, all the shades and depth of expressions they were capable of. And then there was the golden-ness of him: the gruff and the soft waves in his hair which could be ginger or blond or burnished bronze. It was all very confusing and wonderful. Like the heat radiating from his body when she sat close to him to discuss the latest literary review. And his smell. That, she still had to work on, frankly, because she was stuck between some rugged green sap, mixed with juniper berries, and leather, softened by blond suede.

Yes, leather, and the special wax and oils Jorah would use to treat the poor, forlorn books she’d bring him to care for. She would murmur over them, and so would he, their fingers brushing delicately over the bindings to be repaired—whispering to the tears, shushing the scars, their eyes meeting and their breaths mixing until she’d retreat a bit, blushing. And yet she’d linger, to observe how Jorah would apply his science, captivated and strangely lulled by the sensuality with which he restored her treasures. That is, the way his strong but gracile hands would mend the books back to health and make their bindings shine. She loved to watch him work and he’d let her, their soft-spoken conversation lapsing into silence with just the silky sound of cotton cloth over matter sibilating through the air. She’d feel time slow down as the light caught the streak of oil glistening on the leather, its perfume reaching her nostrils and Jorah’s repeated motions covering her own skin with delicious goosebumps. How opiate this slipping away, this vanishing into thin air, floating inside the sensory regalia of Jorah’s ministrations. It was no wonder the Professor looked like he’d forgotten her presence… until, never stopping his caress, he’d raise his eyes to her because, suddenly, a sigh would escape her lips. A sigh and a smile. It was he, then, who would blush upon the soft innuendo.

This was all quite maddening… _He_ was quite maddening because he had come to mean so much to her. She wanted to lose herself in his mystery and thank him for making her aware of her own.

Which he had, in the most whimsical of ways, by leaving notes for her, in several books he, somehow, knew would transit through her hands.

It had become an intricate and delicious game for them. A rather dangerous one too, as she’d answer back, in the same fashion, all the while never being quite sure their notes would not fall into a stranger’s hands.

Which it did once but, seeing how the love sonnet had brought a lovely blush to the Library’s oldest and sweetest spinster, Jorah hadn’t had the courage to take it back. The incident had simply given him an excuse to write a new poem, more beautiful than the last.

Sometimes, the notes were a riddle, or a tease, anything really to make the other smile or smirk, lift or furrow an eyebrow, blink in stupefaction, fall into long suspended inward contemplations… or press the note to their heart. Those were her favorites, seeing Jorah make sure no one could read what she had left for him. Looking over his shoulder and then bringing the soft vellum closer to his blue bespectacled eyes, to read her words anew… and then blush. Oh! It came to be, therefore, that what used to be left unsaid between them began to take shape through their writing, in poems and metaphors the layman would not have thought damning, but which nonetheless grew more daring every day. It lasted a long time like this… though, of course, time had little meaning to, and in, the Library. But Daenerys, for one, cherished having found someone who understood her so completely and who, like her, would never tire, it seemed, to court in this fashion.

Ser Jorah Mormont was perfect for her, wasn’t he?

It became abundantly clear the day she snuck into his classroom unseen. Jorah taught in a small amphitheater adjacent to the Library and, taking advantage of a lull in her work, Daenerys had been able to sit in the shadows to see him teach. Hiding, all the way up, in the last tier, she watched him, and watched over him, to her heart’s content.

One hand on his hip, the other resting lightly on his pulpit, ‘Professor Mormont’ was very skillfully maneuvering through a risqué debate dividing his students, a debate that would rage in years to come outside of their timeless cocoon, over whether D.H. Lawrence’s novel, _Lady Chatterley’s Lover_ was literature or _pornography_ —the scandalous word; encouraging everyone to speak up, including his few female students. It made Daenerys smile knowing that, in actuality, _every_ woman attending their small college was registered in Jorah’s classes. She wondered if they were responding to him the way she did: to his stance on that stage, to his words, to the way he _said_ those words.

Though often bashful in more private situations, certainly with her—outside the borderless realm of their correspondence—Jorah became quite the alpha-male when teaching.

He exuded confidence, he projected such a magnetic pull, especially when he read or recited poetry with his gravelly voice, getting into the spirit of each author be they very diverse. It seemed his whole body participated in the performance, as was the case right now, reading from Lawrence.

He had discarded his tweed jacket and undid his cravat, because it seemed his powerful chest needed room to expand, which it did, pushing on the buttons of his silky yellow Edwardian vest, the soft fur showing through his open collar and from underneath his rolled-up sleeves, as he quoted the lines with fiery passion. Sentences swirled from him and around him, like his manly scent, at least to Daenerys, and they made her swoon. Jorah was quoting from the most erotic passage of the novel; pages celebrating the coming together of bodies, the life force inherent in pleasure, the beauty of it. And, of course, the way— _the way_ , he worded the swirl towards pleasure with his deep, posh, halting voice…

_She could only wait, wait and moan in spirit as she felt him withdrawing, withdrawing and contracting, coming to the terrible moment when he would slip out of her and be gone. Whilst all her womb was open and soft, and softly clamouring, like a sea-anemone under the tide, clamouring for him to come again and make a fulfilment for her. She clung to him unconscious in passion, and he never quite slipped from her, and she felt the soft bud of him within her stirring, and strange rhythms flushing up into her with a strange rhythmic growing motion, swelling and swelling till it filled all her cleaving consciousness, and then began again the unspeakable motion that was not really motion, but pure deepening whirlpools of sensation swirling deeper and deeper through all her tissue and consciousness, till she was one perfect concentric fluid of feeling, and she lay there crying in unconscious inarticulate cries. The voice out of the uttermost night, the life!_

Oh! Gods! Jorah was truly incarnating the arresting vigor and lyricism of Lawrence’s writing… and it simply stole Daenerys’ breath away! In the state she was in, she felt quite sure the pounding of her heart, and that of her secret folds, would reach him. They were coming alive like never before (because, sometimes, imagination _became_ experience) and they would unveil her carnal longings for him, and to him… If she didn’t faint before he was done.

Judging from the stunned silence that followed his reading, Daenerys understood she was not alone in having fallen under the Professor’s spell. But she was the only one whose slight panting was in perfect unison with his. She saw it, and she felt it, when Jorah’s eyes suddenly latched on to hers. Unbeknownst to herself, Daenerys had rocked her body forward as Jorah spoke, her pale blue dress scintillating in the lit circle embracing the audience. And being all alone, in the upper tier, she shone like the North Star. She saw Jorah _see_ her, she felt his eyes glide to her bosom, to her hand, delicately poised over her heart as she tried to catch her breath. His own chest was heaving too and, intently looking at her, his features so handsomely flushed, he had not even tried to hide his desire. It only lasted a second, one glorious second to Daenerys, but it made her blush furiously, especially as she realized that she was surely mirroring the same state back to him. So, with a start, she pushed herself back into the shadows, biting her bottom lip. Was that a nascent smile she caught on Jorah’s face?

Thankfully, a young man dared speak up to break the spell.

“Ser, you have just demonstrated the clear superiority of masculine writing when it comes to matters of the heart.”

“Don’t you mean _sex_ , Theon?” a woman’s voice teased him, making everyone gasp and laugh with immature glee.

“Ah!” exclaimed Jorah, “I believe Ros has called you out, _Mister_ Greyjoy.” And as his smiling comment provoked more discreet laughter in the audience, the Professor turned to the rest of the assembly. “And would anyone care to challenge this widespread view?”

Shy whispers and shrugs all around.

“Well,” Jorah answered, “how about Emily Dickinson?... Anyone. No?”

Intrigued, Daenerys hunched forward once more. And watched, yet again mesmerized, as Jorah recited by heart, and _from_ the heart, a poem by the famous American recluse:

_Forbidden fruit a flavor has  
That lawful orchards mocks;  
How luscious lies the pea within  
The pod that Duty locks!_

Snorting, Theon scoffed: “Veggie poetry, Ser?”

Over the sound of ribaldry and before Ros said something she’d regret, Jorah held up his finger to make her wait a second and, shushing everyone, he answered his obnoxious student: “Theon, if you cannot devise which _luscious pea_ Miss Emily Dickinson is referring too, I pity the bride sharing your clueless bed, one day.”

 _Oh_ , whispered Daenerys, bringing her hand to her mouth while, down below, spontaneous applause erupted from some of the ladies. Daenerys’ whole body was tingling with understanding, aroused and moved by the very fact that Jorah _knew._ He knew what the poetess meant, and if he knew, then… a bed shared with him _would never be clueless_. Lost to her immodest thoughts, Daenerys remained deaf to the snickering remarks trying to help Theon save face, and the banging of a few seats being vacated by shocked students.

Undeterred by the brouhaha, Jorah turned to Ros: “I believe you meant to enlighten your classmate, my dear?”

Smirking, Ros prepared to lay it on thick, turning a playfully murderous gaze towards Theon and his crew but, surprisingly, a more timid voice cut her short, that of Sansa Stark.

“I believe, Professor,” the poised red head said quietly, “that we should rejoice in the notion that a ‘spinster poet’ sang, for all to hear, the joy which her own body procured her, in the secret of her days.”

In the audience, Ellaria Sand softly brushed the hand of her companion, Yara, the two of them smiling in tune with their Professor on stage.

“Thank you, Miss Stark,” Jorah answered, his voice soft and melodious, as he locked eyes with his young student, “no one could have said it better.”

 _How luscious lies the pea_ … Daenerys would never forget how Ser Jorah had said those words, nor the soft amorous glance her Knight gifted her at the close of his lecture.


	3. A Season in Hell (Arthur Rimbaud) / Les Misérables (Victor Hugo)

“I don’t think I’m faring too well, old chap.”

Sitting in Ser Barristan’s parlor, Jorah was hunching slightly in his seat, like someone doubling over from a stomach ache.

“Nonsense, my boy, I’ve never seen you look so… primed,” said his host, while lifting his bespectacled eyes from the bee he was pinning next to a dragonfly into his Victorian glass showcase.

“No, you don’t understand Barristan,” Jorah sighed. “I barely eat anymore, I live for her cups of tea. I don’t sleep, I dream. And I leave words hanging. In the middle of classes, do you hear? Whole sentences unfinished.”

“Oh my,” Barristan said under his breath, “do send in the Charge of the Light Brigade.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Setting down his tweezer and his spectacles, Ser Barristan came to stand beside his protégé and, squeezing his shoulder, he proceeded to sit down next to him, serving him more tea and presenting him with a plate of scones, from which Jorah spontaneously ate, contradicting his earlier assessment.

“You’re in love, my boy.”

Jorah glowered. “Oh, don’t be ludicrous. Of course I’m not,” he lied to his friend. “I’m too old. And, besides, she’s… she’s this amazing, self-possessed, intelligent, obstinate, infuriating…”

Barristan was patiently waiting for Jorah to finish his diatribe, twirling his spoonful of sugar into his cup of tea. Though what followed made him raise an eyebrow.

“… Goddess come down from Olympus, her silver hair alighting my very soul…”

“Jorah…”

“I mean, I am NOT worthy of her. Yes, of course, we spare and confide and, I mean, I think she _likes_ me…”

Barristan was trying very hard not to roll his eyes at Jorah.

“Have I told you we… we correspond? You should see her writings, we could get her published. But, I ask you Ser, what would she want with me? No!...”

“Jorah…”

“Truly, sometimes…”

“Jorah…”

“… I look at her, and I can’t believe she’s real.”

“Mormont!” Having raised his voice, Barristan finally caught Jorah’s attention. “The issue here is not whether you deserve her, or even if she loves you, but coming to terms with the fact that _you_ love _her_.”

Professor Mormont looked at his friend, and then, pausing for a second, a pained expression washing over his face, he let his shoulders slump, in defeat, his hands pulling his spectacles from his face to pinch his nose.

“Why did you have to retire again?”

**

Once more, Daenerys was reciting Emily Dickinson’s poem to herself when her ears pricked up on Ros’ voice whispering Jorah’s name to an exchange student, Irri, who seemed quite shocked, as they sat in the Library’s reading room.

“You lie, Ros. I do not believe you.”

“Oh, believe me, I tried, the man is celibate.”

That made Daenerys smile, as she pretended to busy herself with her Dewey classification cards.

“Inordinately so,” Ros added, ruefully.

“What do you mean?” Irri asked, with her lovely accent. “Do you mean that he is… _joyous_ —what is the word? _Happy_?”

Ros’s blank look was not helping her. “ _Gay_. You mean gay, Irri.”

“Yes!” the girl whispered, “But is he truly?” Irri breathed out, the thought seemingly crushing every hope contained in her body.

“No!” Ros answered, annoyed, “though… what men do when they’re in the Army…”

“Oh. Oh yes. And he is very… _com-fortable_ with men, you have noticed?” her friend added, pushing her own anxiety up a notch. “The Gods are cruel, it is known.”

Oh, this conversation was turning into something _ubuesque_ , Daenerys thought, still smiling.

“No, it’s something else.”

“Maybe he is in love?!”

Feeling called out, Daenerys stopped fidgeting with her index cards.

“It’s complicated,” Ros declared, with an air of superiority. “Our professor has… skeletons in his closet.”

At that, Daenerys’s smile vanished.

**

“Barristan, _what_ am I going to do? You know my situation. I…”

Barristan took a sip of his tea before answering. The pause and the eerie calmness of his voice when he spoke again, shifted the mood of the conversation.

“Do you remember Rhaegar from the 11th?”

“How could I forget?” Jorah perked up, though bemused by his friend’s change of subject. “He was such a valiant, charismatic leader… It was an honor to fight at his side. There have been days I wish I could have taken that sabre blow instead of h—”

“She’s his sister.”

“What?”

“Daenerys Targaryen is Rhaegar’s baby sister.”

Jorah shook his head, quite sure his friend was speaking nonsense. But before he could argue, Barristan explained further.

“Rhaegar did not enlist under his real name. Or rather turned his first name into a made-up family name to disengage himself from family pressure, from family shame but, Jorah, we fought alongside Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, next in line to the throne of old Valyria.”

And though Jorah was still trying to fathom what Barristan was telling him, the reckoning was at hand: Rhaegar’s silver hair catching the sun before the battle, Rhaegar’s hand on his shoulder encouraging him to write, “to push the horror away”—his words to him in secret, when he’d make the rounds at night.

_“We’ll make a poet out of you yet, Mormont!”_

Rhaegar’s uncompromising intelligence, the fire in him, his cocky smile lighting up his violet eyes… and Rhaegar’s violet eyes veiling over as he died in his arms.

How? How could he not have recognized Rhaegar in Daenerys?

“What… are you telling me, Barristan?” Jorah whispered, his voice strained.

“Daenerys was just a child… She had to flee with members of the royal family—you recall how King Targaryen died a crazed tyrant?—and… she suffered terribly, Jorah.”

Hearing the last of Barristan’s sentence, Jorah straightened in his chair and turned to his friend, the muscles in his jaw twitching.

“What… are you telling me, Barristan?” he repeated, but more forcefully, and with a purpose to his tone that wasn’t there before.

“There was… a forced marriage, and…”

Barristan had to interrupt himself, Jorah getting to his feet so unexpectedly, his chair teetered, and he had to grab it to settle it, and his nerves.

“They _forced_ her to marry?” Jorah rasped, his voice but a dark whisper.

The very thought of Daenerys being forced to do _anything_ , being constrained, being sold like a brood mare and, and… and besides, it couldn’t be, she would have been _so young_. _No!_

But the look he exchanged with Barristan only confirmed his worst apprehension. And when his friend’s glance did not let up, Jorah blanched.

_He would kill them all, whomever they were. He would…_

“It did not end well, for all involved. Sit down, my friend…”

And so, his hand on Jorah’s arm, in a calming gesture, Barristan explained how he arranged for Daenerys to flee her captors and come abroad, to start her life anew.

“But she is… she is as light as the breeze! Her laughter, Barristan… you should hear it. She is… as radiant as the sun!”

The gentle, wrinkled face of Ser Barristan smiled a bit sadly at Jorah’s wonder before his hand squeezed his arm again: “I know, she is resilience incarnate. Sometimes I believe she could walk through fire. Listen to me, son. They might never come for her. And maybe the rest of her life will be dedicated to the pursuit of that which brings her joy, in our Library with the red doors. But it doesn’t mean, Jorah, that she doesn’t need a champion.”

The look on Jorah’s face told Barristan all he needed to know. He would never have to worry again.

**

Ros had to lean closer to her friend to whisper the rest of her indiscretion, but Daenerys heard every word.

“There’s a wife in the portrait. He’s married.”

Blood rushing to her ears, Daenerys heard the words pound and resonate through her. This was not happening.

“But he does not wear the ring,” Irri objected, echoing Daenerys’s sentiment. “You are sure? Maybe she is dead, this woman. And he is sad, and alone. Have you not thought of that, Ros? Sometimes you are like the moon, so cold and… and full of venom. The poor man…”

“My, aren’t we a tad melodramatic? No, listen to me… Theon found out.”

Slipping a piece of newspaper in front of Irri, which Daenerys oversaw, Ros put a stop to all speculation: “He was married after the fall of Valyria and the Nile campaign.”

The picture on the yellowed newspaper showed Jorah in top hat, smiling, with a glamorous Victorian bride on his arm. And then she slipped a more recent newspaper clipping on top of it, this one from the _King’s Landing Tatler_ , and it showed Jorah’s bride, Lynesse, with the word “scandal” attached to her.

“And he still is!”

**

The air was very still in Barristan’s parlor. On Jorah’s face, Barristan could read all the hardships his _protégé_ endured throughout the years, all his crushed hopes, but also the levity his present condition was affording him, and the light, the light shining brighter than ever, since Daenerys had erupted into his life.

 _‘White. A blank page or canvas. His favorite. So many possibilities.’_ He knew this about Jorah. He knew he would pledge himself to this new cause, to Daenerys, with all his heart.

So, Barristan watched Jorah as he got up, his stance noble and strong, his demeanor one of absolute resolve. He watched him grab his hat. He watched him take his leave, and then pause at the door before exiting.

“Hear me, Barristan,” Jorah told him, “no one, _no one_ , will _ever_ hurt her again.”

And yet.

As he stood with this unbreakable oath on his lips, Jorah did not see Daenerys running up the spiral staircases leading to her flat.

He didn’t see her slamming the door behind her to recline on it, her eyes closed, and her hand to her mouth.

He didn’t see her stifle her sobs. He didn’t see her tears. And he didn’t hear her heart break, in a thousand little pieces. Hurting. Because of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The line attributed to Barristan Selmy while thinking of Jorah: ‘White. A blank page or canvas. His favorite. So many possibilities.’ is, in fact, the last line in the musical Sunday in the Park With George.


	4. Remembrance Of Things Past (Marcel Proust)

Jorah wasn’t sure about his bouquet of white flowers. He tried the patience of the town’s florist, making him fetch every species from his greenhouse, hoping to find Daenerys’ exact fragrance and yet, always falling short. But the purity and brilliance of these lilies and camellias and white roses, their pristine shine—yes, these were the perfect echo to Daenerys.

His Love.

He hadn’t slept a wink since his visit to Barristan. What he’d learn… not that he would let her know that he knew. He’d protect her in secret. In fact, wasn’t he already? Watching over her? Making sure her realm, the Library, remained free of menacing shadows? That wouldn’t change but he would declare himself. His talk with his mentor had somehow made him see everything so clearly.

His Love. Daenerys was his love. And he’d tell her. He’d tell her about Lynesse too; of course. And if she didn’t want him, he… That would be fine too, he told his heart. They would always have their talks and…

“I’m afraid Ms Targaryen cannot receive you.”

“I’m sorry?”

Jorah had lost track of where he was until Septa Unella blocked his way to Daenerys’ office.

“Ms Targaryen left clear instructions.”

“I… Of course…” This was so unusual, so unexpected, and Daenerys’ assistant so short with him; Jorah felt strangely lost. “May I leave these flowers with you then?”

“Oh, you may.”

The level of animosity oozing from the matronly Unella was such that Jorah understood that something was definitely afoot.

“On second thought, I’ll hang on to them, and come back later. Good day to you…”

He had waited a while, in the reading room, one eye to Daenerys’ office, the other on his bouquet, which would soon be in need of fresh water. Sighing, he tried to take an interest in a manuscript he was to translate, for an editor friend of his, in Paris. He took it out of his case but, anxiety gnawing at him, because _she_ wasn’t showing up, he never got farther than the opening pages, sludging through sentences that seemed endless to him. _Gods, who was this Marcel Proust?_

He needed to concentrate. She was bound to show up. She was. And the first sentence _was_ intriguing: « _Longtemps, je me suis couché de bonne heure._ » How was he going to translate that?

‘For a long time, I used to go to bed early.’… ‘Time was, when I always went to bed early.’… ‘Time and again, I have gone to bed early.’

 _Who cares?_ Jorah felt like screaming, in exasperation.

Well, ‘time was’ when _he_ would have cared. A lot. But now, _he_ certainly didn’t want to go to bed, _at all_ , if it meant going _without her_...

Oh, Gods, he was losing all sense of propriety.

Jorah slammed the manuscript on the table, scaring the few quiet patrons sitting nearby. Then, apologizing with a scowl, he abruptly got to his feet, and left the premises, taking his bouquet and his books with him.

*

Class was a nightmare. He cared more for his flowers, which he put in a makeshift vase on his pulpit, than for his students’ arguments. Petals were detaching themselves at an alarming rate. You’d think he had set the bouquet in acid.

At recess, he excused himself, dismissing the class and intriguing many; and he went back to the Library, quite determined to see Daenerys. Something was simply not right. He could feel it.

Avoiding the staff, he managed to evade Septa Unella’s scrutiny and went up the iron staircase stealthily. Then, pausing in front of Daenerys’ office, he perceived some movement behind the closed shade of its glass door… and decided to enter, without knocking.

“Unella, please, not now,” he heard his Queen say feebly.

Daenerys was cleaning her desk, putting personal effects inside a box. She was standing up, in the semi-darkness, with her back to the door. And seeing her all dressed in black, for the first time, with her silver blond hair elegantly raised on top of her head, a string of pearls cascading down her back, Jorah thought she looked like a widow; a beautiful, tragic widow who was now resting her head in her hand, curving her swan’s neck, with the weight of the world on her shoulders.

“Please leave, I don’t need any help.”

“Daenerys.”

Hearing that deep velvet call, Daenerys swung round to face Jorah, her hands reaching for her desk to support her. She saw the wilting flowers in her Knight’s hands; he saw that she had been crying.

“You!” Her voice, so regal and haughty.

“Daenerys, please…”

Moving forward, tentatively, like one approaches a cornered and frightened wildling, Jorah reached Daenerys before she was able to protest again. She didn’t have the necessary strength left, it seemed, except to turn her face away from him, as she shook all over, her knuckles turning white on the oak wood of her desk. Seeing her like this, suffering so, Jorah winced and, after gently laying his bouquet on a pile of books next to her, he came closer, both of his hands raised as if to show Daenerys he meant her no harm… but also in the hopes that he would feel a breach in the invisible shield she had raised between them.

“Khaleesi…”

On that word, Daenerys whimpered, and Jorah knew to reach for her. Cradling her head in his hands, he lifted her face to his, his thumbs gently brushing her tears away. They had never touched so intimately, and the Gods knew he had not envisioned their first time to be so dramatic, but he would do anything, _anything_ to make the hurt go away.

“My love…”

Oh! How she tensed against him, her eyes flashing open, the fire in them seizing him.

“Love! Love? How can you say that to me?”

She moved to disengage herself, but Jorah didn’t let her. He would put an end to this nightmare.

“I would never hurt you. You know how I feel, I know you do, and I know you feel the same. We have shared so much already!...”

The suffering in her eyes, it was killing him. And he had sworn, _he had sworn_ , she would never hurt again. Putting his hand on her back, and opening it fully, Jorah pulled Daenerys closer, slowly and purposefully, his eyes never leaving hers; the warmth of his embrace making her quiver in his arms.

“My Lady, my Queen…” All the love he felt for her, in those words. Daenerys whimpered again, feeling the truth in them, and she closed her eyes, leaning into Jorah’s hand, not wanting to hear any more. And yet…

“Tell me how I have wronged you. I shall lay my life at your feet. You know I will…”

“Jorah…”

Oh Gods, the way she was looking at him now, her breath coming quicker, her lips, parting.

He kissed her. Jorah kissed his Queen like a man tasting life after centuries of slumber. The softness of her breath, the fullness of her lips, the hunger she welcomed and appeased…

He would never go back, and he would never get enough!

And so, when he broke the kiss, it was but for a moment, to see the love in her eyes before coming back for more. It lasted, and lasted… Daenerys melting inside his arms, letting him mold her limbs to his, letting his hand gently but possessively curb round her neck to better lift her face to his. When she slipped her own hand through his hair, to feel his curls, while brushing her lips against his gruff, to make them swell from the touch, he moaned taking her mouth again, and he deepened their kiss. Expertly, passionately, feeling Daenerys relinquish even more, and letting him drink from her very soul… until she spoke.

“Lynesse. Your wife. Do you kiss her like this?”

And Jorah’s world came crashing down.


	5. Cyrano de Bergerac (Edmond Rostand)

He had not been able to explain. He had not been able to make himself heard. Daenerys banished him from her sight, and Jorah left her office like a man going to the gallows. He left the Library, not looking back on its red doors closing behind him. And he left the college, removing himself from society.

He had failed so miserably, so utterly, so completely… He kept seeing the hurt in Daenerys’ eyes. He kept feeling her lips. He kept seeing her push him away. She felt betrayed by him and there was nothing he could do about it. _Nothing._

The thought of seeking Barristan’s help never crossed his mind, his shame too deep. And so, Jorah was appalled when, opening his door on what he was sure to be another bailiff, he saw his mentor standing there, with a stern expression on his face and a large rectangular basket in his hands.

“I’ve brought you sustenance.”

“I don’t eat.”

“Who said anything about food?”

*

Having let his old friend in, Jorah was now contemplating the contents of his offering.

Sheets of paper, ink, and a new pen.

“Write to her.”

“Are you mad?” Jorah exclaimed, cringing away, his tall frame hunching under the slanted roof of his attic bachelor pad. One arm grabbing one of the beams for support, his other hand raking the beard that had replaced his well-groomed gruff, he looked a mess and dejected… but still too tall for this world. Jorah Mormont was a Knight and no degree of self-loathing would ever diminish his true self, certainly not in the eyes of his old comrade.

“Listen to me. She lies in bed. Wilting away!”

Jorah winced on those words, turning on himself, like a caged beast.

“She is wilting away!” Barristan repeated, his voice shaking with indignation. “Now… I have managed to stop her from going back to England.”

At that, Jorah threw him a panicked look.

“I have reinstated my position as Head Librarian, and can visit her every day—yes, she has not left her nest at the Library—, but I am not getting through to her. And do you know why?”

The scowl and the hurt on Jorah’s face were no answer.

“Because, dear boy, I am NOT the one she loves. So, you will do what you do best…”

“Oh! I still have my sabre,” Jorah rasped, his voice that of a cynic, “I’m on my own agenda, I assure you.”

Hearing this frightening nonsense, Barristan refrained from slapping his protégé, but just barely. His tone, though, spoke volumes: “Mormont, you will sit down, and take the quill, and you will honor your pledge to me, and to her. _You will save her._ Now, write!”

**

And Jorah did. Once he began writing, he found he could not stop. Pages and pages, divided in short and long letters, poems and languid prose, soft prayers and rational exposés, introspective pleas and feverish _billets doux_. He would send them out, at all times of the day, entrusting them to his landlady, but now… a week had passed and still he hadn’t received an answer. It came a night when, unable to wait for morning, Jorah went out himself to hand-deliver his latest missive. He did this like a man gone mad, on foot, through a snowstorm.

The Library suddenly appeared between the white squalls of snow thrown at him by howling winds, and his heart stopped.

It had been such a long time! It felt like years, this exile from his lair, this banishment from her grace. The imposing building seemed ensconced in ice, closed to him, like Daenerys’ heart. Snow was accumulating half-way up the red doors, and he would have to sludge through piles of it in order to reach the iron cast deposit box. Unless…

There was light flickering from the tallest tower, its rounded windows scintillating from the frost, and he understood. He just knew this had to be where his Love lay. Reason leaving him completely, Jorah found himself climbing the oak tree flanking the tower and then its stones and water drains and crenellations until he found himself on the ledge encircling Daenerys’ hideaway, his face coming up to a grimacing gargoyle. His Queen was guarded by dragons made of stone.

Exhaling on the ice covering the windows, Jorah began to see the interior appear through the melting frost under his warm breath. It was beautiful; it was like some tableau in a faerie tale. This was her bedroom, exquisite, like her soul, decorated in MacIntosh designs and delicate art nouveau prints, in shades of gold and blue, to offset her porcelain skin, and her silver-blond hair. She shone in the soft glow of the gas lamps turned way down low, creating a halo all about her. Her figure, her face, asleep in her bed. He could see her clearly now, her bosom lifting softly through her slumber. And he could see the faint blush of her lips. The only warmth he’d ever need.

A gust of wind slammed into him and Jorah had to hold on more tightly to the upper ledge, his ungloved hand hurting from frostbite. _Well, what now?_ Did he aim to get in? This was sheer madness. He knew it. And yet, he did set this exact plan in motion, trying to lift the guillotine window, until suddenly his eyes fell on a pile of letters in Daenerys’ bedroom, _his letters_.

Unopened.

They were scattered on a small table next to the fireplace and some had been discarded in front of the hearth. Was she… _Was she burning them?_

Closing his eyes, Jorah winced and breathed hard, though he could have growled or howled and, rising to his full height, he stood there formidable, unafraid and noble. _Loyal and Sure_. That had been the motto of the 11th Hussards and Jorah was the very incarnation of his regiment’s pledge.

He took out the letter he had come to lay at Daenerys’ feet and, though he could have thrown it away, he pressed its cold, crisp paper to the glass, lodging the envelope forcibly into the groove of the wooden frame. Then, grabbing the window with both hands, he pulled back, the letter in line with his heart and, with one last look to Daenerys, he turned on himself and glanced down at the ground below.


	6. Northanger Abbey (Jane Austen)

The sun was shining very bright; its first pink rays reflecting on the snow and frost encasing Daenerys’ nest. It woke her up with its brilliance, making her blink and put up her hand to protect her from its blinding beams. She sat up, slowly, not feeling rested. She never did anymore, no matter how attentive Ser Barristan was to her comfort. And it was cold this morning in her bedroom, the fire had probably gone out.

Turning to the fireplace, Daenerys gasped.

The letters! _Jorah’s letters._ Some had fallen next to the cinders.

Quickly, Daenerys got out of her bed and, shivering, she went to collect them all. She remembered being upset the night before but not throwing them to the flames. She had sat down to read them, finally finding the courage to do so, because her heart couldn’t go on suffering.

 _Suffering for naught,_ Ser Barristan kept telling her.

But her hands had begun trembling and she hadn’t been able to restrain her sobbing… and then, there was just blackness. Darkness. Images and terrible memories gripping her heart, those of the men that had hurt her and used her and…

But Jorah was not like her brother and the husband Viserys had forced upon her, or even the false knights in the royal entourage that had once been her family. Ghosts from her past. Ghosts everywhere. Jorah was not like them. She knew this, deep in her heart, and yet she had pushed him away. And now, she didn’t know how to find her way back to him.

“My Lady, I beg you,” Ser Barristan had whispered to her, daring to lay his hand upon hers, “read his letters. The man is not guilty of the sins and half-truths, worse than lies, that were whispered to you.”

Guilt was gnawing at her now, and it would get worse, reading of his own hurt or accusations, if these were the contents of his letters. And she knew she’d die a horrible death if they were full of his unfaltering love. But she had to read them, she owed it to him. And, of course, she had missed his writing so!

Trembling, Daenerys brushed her fingers on Jorah’s envelopes, over the beautiful script and the ridges of the old-fashioned wax monogram with which he had sealed them. Then, bringing the first one to her lips, Daenerys closed her eyes to smell the vellum. It did smell of him, still, but of her too and, opening her eyes again, _something_ caught her attention, beyond the letter to her window. A squarish patch of—

It was flapping in the wind, and a bright red cardinal was now tugging on what looked like a ribbon, detaching itself from… _an envelope_!

Not believing her eyes and yet hoping madly, Daenerys ran to her window, scaring the bird away. Oh! It _was_ an envelope! And it bore the unmistakable handwriting of her Knight. The window was frozen into place but, after much effort, and some regal determination, Daenerys managed to lift it open. Wrestling with the wind, she then snatched Jorah’s offering from the hands of winter.

*

_Khaleesi,_

_I came to the Library, many years ago, in the last hope that its treasures would act as ramparts to the ugliness of the World; with masters of prose and poetry there to cure my heart and free me from the lingering shame of a loveless marriage. But even with all their arts, and though words became my only passion, I found in their wonderful books no lasting cure until you came to reign over their realm and my soul. I have loved you since the moment I met you…_

Oh Jorah… Her eyes misting over, Daenerys reread the last sentence, cherishing Jorah’s confession before reading ahead.

_I have had a longer life than I deserved, and I only wish I could have lived to see the world you are going to build here, behind the red doors of our college and its Library, standing by your side._

What? Rethreading Jorah’s words, anxiety gripped Daenerys. Why this use of the past tense? _Could have_. Jorah wrote ‘could have’ but… wasn’t this the modal of lost opportunity? Looking at all the letters she had not opened, she cursed herself. Was she too late? Had she read him _too late_?

Not even stopping to reflect on the foolishness of her next actions, Daenerys ran out of her bedroom, with only her shawl about her, not bothering to read the rest of Jorah’s last missive. And yet, if she had…

_I know you do not love me. But my love shall suffice for the two of us._

When Daenerys swung open the French doors to her flat, a gust of arctic air struck her, knocking the wind out of her lungs.

The Library!

_I will not shy away anymore. I will not hide._

The Library was covered in a sheen of ice, with wispy banks of snow hugging the tables down below and the tower of books rising high all the way up to her nest. Daenerys tried to understand, then saw one of the tall stained-glass windows shattered. The morning moon and the early rays of light were shining above through its shards, looking down on the blueish night of winter come claiming her dominion.

_I will do whatever it takes for you to take me back as your humble Knight. I will not let you wither away._

Her mouth agape, Daenerys held on to the railing of her mezzanine, her gait tentative, setting one foot after the other, her naked feet sliding over the ice. This was madness but she had to make sure Jorah was safe. Taking one more step, and then another, she was nearing the end of the catwalk when, suddenly, a tall silhouette rose in front of her.

_I will be there when you wake up. I will be there…_

She screamed in fright, letting go of the railing, and then everything was a blur. She felt herself fall, she felt a strong arm grab her and…

“I have you!”

 _Jorah!_ Jorah’s voice and arm. Jorah holding her close as they swung over the frigid air paralyzing the Library.

Daenerys had fallen over the railway and Jorah had dived after her, grabbing her in mid-flight. And now they hung, Jorah holding on to the catwalk’s railing with one hand. And yet…

“I have you…” he repeated.

His strength. His blue eyes. The ice covering his wisps of hair, his eyebrows, and his beard from which she could still contemplate his soft pink lips. “Jorah?” Daenerys repeated out loud, suddenly aware that they were swinging three stories high, in the middle of their Library, and hanging on but for the grace of the Gods… and Jorah’s Bear Island strength.

“Will you have me, Your Grace?” he whispered, his expression so intense, adrenaline racing through his veins.

“What?”

“If we’re to die, Khaleesi, I would like it to be after you’ve knighted me… with a kiss.”

Daenerys gasped, torn between fear and desire, her eyes flashing wildly to the void underneath their swinging bodies back to Jorah’s face—where desire won over. “Ser,” she whispered, like a blessing… before feeling Jorah’s burning lips come to claim what he had wished for and her heart had granted him.


	7. The Ladies' Paradise (Émile Zola)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Giftee and sweet readers, please note the change in ratings. It just went from Teen to Mature for loooooooooooove reasons!

Jorah and Daenerys were still huddled together near the huge fireplace whose flames had at least made the ice and snow melt from the great room. Jorah had discarded his wintery leather garb to warm Daenerys. His long coat was swung over her shimmering delicate nightgown, and she held her cashmere shawl to her bosom, as Jorah’s arms also tried to warm her. They could have fled from ‘the scene of the crime’ but Jorah was perfectly willing to admit having broken in. He would face the Law. He would be True. And they might think him mad but, the Library being under lock and snow, how else was he going to save Queen Daenerys Targaryen from herself?

“ _Head Librarian_ , if you will… Professor Mormont!” Daenerys corrected her Knight with a smirk.

She even forgave him the damage done to their cherished Library. At least, the red doors were still intact and, strangely, she had never really liked the stained-glass motif of the panel Jorah had shattered to get in, St. Michael Slaying the Dragon. It was too sad. She had always rooted for the beautiful fiery dragon.

“I have a weakness for formidable beasts,” she whispered, grazing her fingers through Jorah’s beard, and letting her eyes tell him of her love, and how so very relieved and happy she felt to have found him again. It made him hold his breath, his eyes perusing her features until, seeing her smile softly, he smiled too, bashfully. And then, not resisting, he took the hand caressing his face, to kiss it. Kiss its fingers and, most fervently, its soft interior, warming Daenerys’ palm with his lips. He heard his Queen’s breath come quicker and he raised his eyes to her, telling _her_ of his love.

“Khaleesi, shall I arrange for the window to be replaced with a new motif? That of the Bear with his Maiden Fair?”

Ah! It was her turn to blush! The Professor was quite proud of himself.

Before having to deal with real life, Daenerys and Jorah had talked the dawn away, the Knight explaining to his Queen the sordid details of his tragic love affair with Lynesse: their simulacrum of a marriage, the scandals she provoked… Noble to a fault, Jorah was careful not to slander his wife, taking most of the blame, but Daenerys was no fool. If Jorah was at fault, it was for having loved too blindly. That romantic candor of his, underneath his gruff exterior and all his years as a self-proclaimed cynic: he might have fooled many a foe, but he couldn’t fool her. She saw through him. And though she understood that he was not a free man, because Lynesse, with an army of solicitors at her service, was refusing divorce, Daenerys knew Jorah was hers. She held his sacred heart in her hands.

Her eyes never leaving Jorah’s face as he spoke to her, in discreet words meant to convey terrible truths, Daenerys found herself enraptured by her Knight’s features, enhanced and made more mysterious by the glow of the flames raging in the fireplace. She committed every look, and every fleeting emotion, to memory. She was moved, unbeknownst to him, from the sheer happiness of hearing his dulcet tones again and, she couldn’t have said when exactly, but at one point in his recollections, as they still sat on the long leather sofa facing the hearth, Daenerys just leaned in and took his lips.

That kiss. That kiss they had shared before the banishment and which she wanted to rekindle again. Oh! How did she ever manage to live without it?

This time, it was she orchestrating it, pulling Jorah’s face to hers and pressing her plump lips delicately to his, nibbling sensually, and making him wait and long for the true kiss to sweep them away. He was looking at her, not quite believing this was happening, not quite believing she wanted him again.

 _Oh Jorah_ … And it only made her want him more.

She perused her Professor like a bee, landing here and there, to pollinate the corners of his mouth, or the gruff near the satin of his bottom lip, teasing his mouth open and whimpering there before tasting him with her tongue, while she twirled her fingers in his curls. She began to hear it then, Jorah’s feral rumble, a baritone’s purr coming from his diaphragm. She wondered if it ever turned into a growl. She wondered if she could find out.

Right now.

On this couch.

Inside their Library in such passionate disarray.

Disrobing herself from Jorah’s leather coat, Daenerys put her arms around her Knight, whispering close to his ear, that she needed his warmth. She heard Jorah’s breath come quicker, and he stole hers, pulling her close, his eagerness betraying his growing desire. It thrilled her to feel the power she seemed to hold over his senses. And she didn’t shy away when Jorah’s mouth took hers in earnest. She welcomed _the kiss_ , she let it engulf her. And she let Jorah ply her to him, the way he had before but, this time with her own hands roaming his body and making the buttons of his shirt snap. Oh! That fur underneath…

“Won’t you shed the rest of your armour, sweet Ser? I have none and must brave the draft running through my chemise. Do you see?”

She pulled back, just enough for Jorah to contemplate one of her breasts and its nipple rising through the diaphanous fabric of her nightgown, the glow of the fire sculpting it. She felt her skin come alive under Jorah’s gaze, his expression moved and aroused, as he watched her hand delicately brush over her rosy tip. For him.

“Daenerys…” His voice, like a prayer to stop.

But she took his hand and made him cup her breast. Oh, how his breath wavered and transformed into a low, low vibration, his blue eyes darkening, turning cobalt as he coveted her. Daenerys drank it all, Jorah’s hunger and hesitation, letting the ache of her own desire pulse through her. The fire was warming her flesh, like Jorah’s amorous whispers as he bent to the shell of her ear, his fingers and hand making her breast and bud respond to him. When he brushed her flesh more possessively, it made her whimper… and the rumble became a growl!

“ _Daenerys…_ ”

Jorah crushed his Queen to him, pushing her down slowly onto the leather of the sofa with his kiss and heaving chest, his hips finding their way to her. This was how Daenerys discovered Jorah’s manhood, unmistakable, through his breeches.

His formidable, glorious, feral hardness from Bear Island.

Daenerys gasped and Jorah froze in mid-course… apologizing with his eyes. And yet, wanting her so, he could not retreat. He simply found himself paralyzed, with just their panting breath to witness the seconds slipping by. Until…

Until he sensed his Love slowly shift under him. It felt then…

It felt like an invitation.

But was it?

Nostrils flaring, and swallowing hard, Jorah slowly pressed into Daenerys, waiting for the answer—a slave to his desire and her touch. And she let him, quivering. But then her eyes! Jorah thought he read… fear there, and in that instant, Daenerys’ past came rushing back.

He was a cad! How could he forget what she went through? How could he let lust overcome him?

He retreated… until he felt Daenerys pull on his shirt to bring him back to her.

He held his breath; and so did she.

Her Knight was not going to abandon her, was he?

“I am not afraid.”

 _Oh! Khaleesi!_ Was she really? Not afraid? Or was this brash bravado?

“Jorah, do you hear me? I am not afraid,” his Love repeated, anxiety mixing with desire now.

“And I would never hurt you. Never!” Jorah whispered, his touch so tender suddenly. “No one will ever raise their hands on you _again_ …”

The emphasis on that last word! Daenerys felt a swell of panic grip her and it must have shown because Jorah cradled her face in his hands. His warmth, and the concern in his eyes… Oh Gods, he knew! About her past, about her brother and her husband. And his words confirmed it.

“Ser Barristan told me.” His voice but a whisper.

That revelation made her bottom lip quiver and tears spill over. She felt something like shame; something like mourning. The mourning of the unsullied image he might have had of her.

“No, none of that, Khaleesi.” A sob escaped her on Jorah’s word of endearment, and she put her hand to her mouth, letting her Knight pull her into his arms. “You are my Queen! Nothing will ever change that!”

“Then kiss me. Kiss me like before!” she pleaded, both her arms around his neck. But she need not have pleaded; Jorah’s kiss came freely, hungrily, lovingly.

And, once more, _the kiss_ made them lose themselves in each other.

It was a good thing the Library always found a way to shoo time. It was also a good thing that the person barging into the reading room, and happening on the lovers, turned out to be the college Dean.

Dean Tyrion Lannister.


	8. Sentimental Education (Gustave Flaubert)

“ _Mormont!_ ”

The Dean was no stranger to spontaneous dalliances, but still…

Quick as lightning, Jorah pulled away from Daenerys, their entanglement looking quite intricate, delicious and damning to their visitor. Tyrion noticed how the Professor slipped the shawl back over the librarian’s shoulders, and tried, like a true gentleman, to shield her from his eyes.

“I say, you’ve quite surpassed yourself, this time!” Tyrion exhorted with flair, never one to let his diminutive stature stop him from taking center stage. “Is this…” he waved about him, to encompass the terrible mess the Library was in, “to be chucked to one of your daring new pedagogical experiment? ‘Down with the Old, onward with the New,’ is it?”

Finally noticing the extend of Daenerys’ immodesty—she was, after all, still in her nightgown, and one of her shoulders was quite bare, Tyrion paused. And then he smiled at Jorah. Before going for the kill.

“Oh, I see you’re still in your ‘D.H. Lawrence’ cycle.”

Jorah tensed and started to get up but Daenerys’ hand on his forearm stopped him. Tyrion could in fact commiserate with the two culprits: _coitus interruptus_ was so terribly aggravating!

“Mormont, you do know our school relies on the patronage of rich parents, yes? I’m not sure how I’ll explain all of this to them, not after your recent in-class exploits. I mean, don’t get me wrong, the Gods know I’m the first one to enjoy risqué literature—if you’ll pardon my saying so, Miss Targaryen…”

“Ms.”

“ _Miz_ Targaryen… but, Mormont, _‘pornography’_. Really? And now, what? Vandalism as artistic expression?”

“Lannister!” Jorah started to retort but it was Daenerys who came to her Knight’s defense: got to her feet and walked straight to Tyrion, towering over him in all her womanly glory.

If pressed, surely Dean Tyrion could have recalled what the Head Librarian actually said, something to the effect that Professor Mormont’s teachings were the epitome of scholarly excellence and grace, that his ethics were irreproachable, that this was the 20th Century, _thank the Goddess_ , and that frankly, he, the Dean, should count his blessings for Jorah _not_ having accepted positions offered to him in Oxford, Harvard and, and the Sorbonne (she might have added this one for show, if Jorah’s double take was any indication), and therefore, she was waiting for him to apologize, grovel and fall to his knees. Pleading.

At one point in the diatribe, Tyrion actually ceased to listen, and simply found himself enraptured by the silver dominatrix stance exuding from every regal pore of his new Head Mistress.

Had he thought, _Head Mistress_? He meant Head Librarian, of course.

“Well, I’ll say!” Dean Tyrion breathed out, after Daenerys was done, “You’re a live one…”

Tyrion never saw Jorah coming for him and he only escaped his wrath because of the timely arrival of the Dowager Countess Violet Olenna Crawley Tyrell of Grantham and Highgarden.

She had a knack for stealing the show.

“Dean Lannister!”

Of course, all eyes turned to her.

Jorah let go of Tyrion who, bowing to their guest, greeted her and waited for her to finish looking around the reading room. With a blasé look, one should add.

“I see you finally followed up on my memo to renovate the Library.”

On that, Tyrion sighed and closed his eyes while Jorah and Daenerys exchanged looks. Of course, there had never been a memo, but the Countess’ tone said she was not here to side with Tyrion.

The latter was made evidently clear when a shard of glass from the broken window dislodged itself and shattered to the ground, like an exclamation point. It simply made the Countess tighten her scarf around her neck and add, like an afterthought: “Of course, greenlighting demolition work in the middle of the night might have been a tad zealous, Lannister —but the early bird gets the worm, _n’est-ce pas_?”

Tyrion opened his mouth to answer, his expression one of utmost annoyance, but the Dowager Countess disregarded him by walking towards Daenerys.

“And who might you be, my dear?”

“Daenerys Targaryen, my Lady, I’m Head Librarian here.”

“Of course, you are,” Violet Olenna answered, with her most arcane smirk. Then, turning to Jorah, who had his arm around Daenerys’ shoulders, she added, “And I see you have your… manservant in tow.”

“Oh! My Lady!” Daenerys started, rather shocked by the Countess’ appraisal of Jorah, but Tyrion cut her short.

“This is no one you should preoccupy yourself with, Countess, Professor Mormont simply _swung by_ to give his resignation.”

Hearing Jorah’s name, the Dowager Countess lit up.

“Oh, poppycock! Professor Mormont, I do beg your pardon!”

“Countess,” Jorah whispered, bowing his head.

“I didn’t recognize you in your layman state of undress.”

_Oh Gods…_

“And to think I have heard such _inflammatory_ praise concerning you…”

Was this a compliment? Neither Jorah nor Daenerys looked like they were sure.

“… from both of my grandchildren! Loras and Margaery Tyrell. This being quite an achievement you know: they have such _different_ tastes. Unless they’re too similar. I get confused. You might remember them from your poetry class?”

Not giving Jorah any room to answer, she turned to Tyrion.

“Dean Lannister: finally! Finally, some _forward_ , _modern_ teachings in our dusty college. I trust you’ll give Professor Mormont a raise.”

The look Daenerys threw Tyrion was priceless.

“Now, young man…” Violet Olenna added, setting her hand on Jorah’s forearm, as he tried to curb his expression of bewilderment. “Some of the ladies in my club—you don’t know them yet; eligible matrons, you see, but do not preoccupy yourself with this detail—would be _positively overjoyed_ if you were to recite poetry at our annual fund-raising ball!”

The panicked-stricken look on Jorah’s face came in direct counter-proportion to Daenerys’ amused reaction.

And, for her _coup de grâce_ , the Dowager Countess added:

“The event is scheduled for this evening. You won’t mind, will you?”

Seeing Jorah turn white, Daenerys came to his rescue, reassuring the Dowager Countess as to the Professor’s availability. Smiling, the elder then cocked her head, looking Daenerys up and down.

“Miss Targaryen, is this what they’re wearing in Paris this season? It’s so… _light_. And coy!” she added, laughing, “One must be in constant need of a beau to warm oneself. Well played, my dear.”

When the Dowager Countess Violet Olenna Crawley Tyrell of Grantham and Highgarden left the reading room, Tyrion let out a long sigh, somewhat echoed by Jorah. Though his got cut short by Daenerys’ playful smile.

Turning to them, Dean Lannister managed to get the final word in: “Be a good sport, will you, Mormont, and on your best behavior tonight? It seems you have a window or two, to pay for.”

**

Jorah could not have been more nervous… and annoyed at himself for being nervous, which resulted in a stone-like scowl as he looked at himself in his full-length mirror. Thankfully, his newly groomed head had just the right proportion of gruff and golden wisps of hair to soften his looks. On top of which, the rest of him was positively dashing in military uniform.

Of course, he _was_ a very handsome man, regardless, but in the crisp full-dress officer’s uniform of the 11th Hussars, he was breathtaking. From his mirror-polished black boots and form-fitting russet red breeches to his dark blue jacket with gold braiding, cuffs and facing, Lt. Col. Jorah Mormont looked every inch the dashing hero of Khartoum, who led the victorious charge after the slaying of General Rhaegar, and was thusly awarded the Victoria Cross.

The only adornment lacking was his sabre. And Ser Barristan was now presenting him with it. He too had been appraising Jorah’s looks. In fact, he was responsible for the transformation. His protégé was certainly not going to a ball dressed like an absent-minded professor, nor the ruffled bear he had become in recent days. So, Barristan had insisted that _Ser_ Jorah Mormont wear his old uniform. And it fitted him to a _T_.

Which was not to say Jorah was happy about the whole affair. He wasn’t one for cocktails, let alone balls.

But!

The thought of dancing with Daenerys, of making her proud, of holding her close again, _that_ made him steal a final look at himself in the mirror… of the college’s reception hall when he checked in his overcoat.

“You have this, my boy!” Barristan whispered under his breath as he walked alongside Jorah towards the ballroom.

Of course, he might have spoken a tad too quickly since the Dowager Countess Violet Olenna Crawley Tyrell of Grantham and Highgarden was waiting for them under the grand archway.

“Countess,” Jorah whispered, while kissing her hand, his boots clicking on reflex.

“Professor Mormont! I now quite understand our Circle of Ladies!”

And before Jorah could blush, he turned to see what the Dowager Countess was gracefully pointing to: a gauntlet of refined matrons smiling at him. And _then,_ he turned red from embarrassment! He also wished he could be transported instantly to a battlefield. Even a minefield would be less difficult to navigate than what was in store for him tonight. Stiffly, he turned to Barristan with a desperate plea on his lips, but the Countess laid claim to his friend before the latter could save him.

“Ser Barristan and I will watch from the wings, dear Professor, while you go replenish our college funds.”

Dowager Countess Violet Olenna Crawley Tyrell of Grantham and Highgarden truly had a blunt tongue.

Barristan could only smile apologetically, retreating with the Dowager Countess, and Jorah was left feeling like… he’d rather not conjure up the word. He barely had time to take a deep breath before being swarmed with overly attentive and unctuous ladies thanking him for attending their ball. The fact that Dean Lannister smirked at him the whole time his rich admirers escorted him to the stage did not help Jorah feel more at ease.

How had he found himself in this pickle again?

Yes. Daenerys. Vandalizing the Library in order to reach her.

Well, he was ready to go through hell and back for her, so being presently midway through that journey, he hoped he would prevail. But…

Where was she? Jorah was sure she’d already be here, the Reception Hall being connected to the Library by the college’s greenhouse. Because, surely, Daenerys had been invited by the Dowager Countess.

Hadn’t she?

A bit frantically, Jorah tried to recall the morning events. _The kiss._ No! After that… Jorah could remember Daenerys assuring the Countess of his own presence at the ball and then… it was understood that she would also attend, wasn’t it?

Oh Gods, had they not invited her?

And then he closed his eyes: _he_ had not invited her!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beautiful description of Jorah in Hussar uniform was whispered to me by Chryssadirewolf, researcher extraordinaire!


	9. The Knight of Maison-Rouge (Alexandre Dumas)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear giftee, you will find, inserted in this chapter, *your own words*! Yes, you once wrote an amazingly beautiful description of Iain Glen's voice and I thought the whole world deserved to read them... The reveal is in the End notes :-)

This was how Jorah found himself, looking rather pale, and tightly grasping the pulpit from which he was to read. The musicians were presently tuning their instruments and the Dowager Countess was thanking her distinguished guests for attending her annual fund-raiser… which barely gave Jorah enough time to recompose. He thought of excusing himself to run through the corridors to get Daenerys. He even felt his body set itself in motion. But he had to stop when he heard the Countess say his name and cue the maestro.

Jorah had requested a composition by Debussy, _Clair de Lune,_ to accompany his reading of Byron’s _She Walks In Beauty_. But he had imagined himself reading from his book of favorite poems _to_ Daenerys. If she wasn’t there, it…

He heard the first delicate, romantic notes of the piano. He saw the Countess look at him and Ser Barristan furrow his brow in worry. He also knew the Library was at stake. He _had_ to do this. Therefore, Jorah put on his reading glasses, he cleared his throat and:

_She walks in beauty, like the night  
Of cloudless climes and starry skies…_

His voice was hoarse as he lifted his eyes from time to time, to survey the room, in the hopes Daenerys would materialize. His reading felt hollow to him—though some ladies, actual poetry lovers, were putting their hands to their bosom, entranced by the Professor’s first stirring utterance. Yet, if his Queen wasn’t there, _and by his fault_ …

He stopped.

The musicians played on for a few seconds and then lost their cadence before stopping too, exchanging worried looks… as did everyone, including Tyrion, who pinched his nose, sensing fiasco.

“I’m sorry,” rasped Jorah.

He didn’t shy away from the stares, taking off his glasses and closing his book; he bravely owned his discomfiture. But when his eyes fell on Ser Barristan, oh… Everything they had shared came back to him. The promises he made. And his pledge to Daenerys. And if Daenerys had no Library to return too, he would have no Queen to serve. Jorah felt his spine whip back to attention and then, resolve expanding his chest, he turned to the conductor and signaled for him to start anew.

When the music filled the room, he didn’t open his book, he didn’t put on his glasses. He stood next to the pulpit and, silently thinking of Daenerys, he let his voice rise again.

_She walks…_

This time, it wasn’t him stopping the reading, it was Daenerys herself, making quite an entrance, as butlers were after her, subtly trying to persuade her to leave the premises or put back her full-length cape. Because…

Because she was wearing what would be the rage _in a few years_ but was positively too risqué tonight: a silver sequined art deco dress cut above the knee and boasting no sleeves. That alone was unthinkable. And her hair. Daenerys’ hair gave the impression of being cut short, in its elaborate get up held together by a scintillating headband. _Dear Goddess._

She was scandalous; she was stunning.

“Good girl!” whispered the Dowager Countess Violet Olenna Crawley Tyrell of Grantham and Highgarden.

Completely mesmerized—nay, revitalized—and seeing that Ser Barristan needed no help shooing the butlers away, Jorah nodded briskly to the conductor and the music started once more; this time accompanying him in what was later described as the most arresting performance ever of Byron’s poetry. And certainly, the most erotic. (This last epithet was, of course, _whispered,_ but it secured the funding needed for the Library’s stained-glass window.)

Locking eyes with Jorah, Daenerys let her Knight woo her and, _by the Gods_ , his words made her move through space, towards him, like flames licking their prey, her dress scintillating all the way to the front of the stage.

_She walks in beauty, like the night  
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;  
And all that’s best of dark and bright  
Meet in her aspect and her eyes..._

They danced that evening, waltz after waltz, Daenerys in her modern attire, and Jorah in his splendid uniform, a throwback to his glory years, but a past made irrelevant for its hold on the present. Of course, they were gazed upon by matrons swooning, but they became godmothers, one and all, their envy bowing to truest love. And though the music making them twirl in each other’s arms was exquisite, it was the memory of Jorah’s performance that transported Daenerys, that lifted her, and made her melt in his arms. That muffled voice of the night!

_Thus mellowed to that tender light  
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.  
One shade the more, one ray the less,  
Had half impaired the nameless grace_

Not a whisper and not a day voice. No, Jorah had just enough of a breath out of his heart to rumble, and rise, and fall… with the throbbing of certain words, elongating and deepening the “aaa.” And the pauses! Slicing inside the sentences; mixing with the sounds rising from the depths of his larynx... Ellipsis were etched in his elocution, enabling the rethreading of words to melt one into the other. This was Jorah’s miraculous voice, gifting her Byron!

Was it any surprise then, if at the close of a dance, Daenerys shifted her glance from Jorah’s eyes to his lips, and lifted herself on tiptoes to kiss the mouth, that spoke the words, which stole her heart?

No—of course not.

*

After their kiss, pulling on Jorah’s hand, Daenerys made them flee the ballroom. They walked so briskly, they were almost running through the corridors, Jorah’s hand on the hilt of his sabre to secure it to his side. They stopped only in the deserted greenhouse, by the small octagonal pool.

Daenerys had always liked it here, but in these wintery months especially, it was magical to be in the warm humid air underneath frosted glass, surrounded by beautiful flowers and serenaded by the tickling of the fountain. She would sit by the pool and be seized with diffused memories of an oasis, and a golden desert city which, surely, only belonged in her dreams. But in each one of them, the strong, masculine presence of Jorah dominated her thoughts, and so, finally seeing him here, with her, in this small jewelry box… Daenerys just had to stop their fleeing because she needed “another kiss from her superb hussar to sustain herself.” The Professor blushed on Daenerys’ words; the Lt. Col. found himself only too willing to comply; and the Knight, hearing the music still reaching them, asked for another dance. This time though, Jorah laid his hand on the small of Daenerys’ back, to pull her tightly to him, with no proper distance between them.

“I’ve been wanting to hold you like this all evening,” he whispered, close to her ear, before kissing the curve of her neck.

And then, feeling her respond, he lowered his hand even more, this time to mold her to the whole of him, to that hungry part of him, because he knew… he knew there would be no prying eyes, and no question of impropriety. It made Daenerys’ breath come quicker as they danced like this, she so _petite_ in his tall embrace.

“You are _absolutely_ ravishing,” she heard Jorah add, his voice deeper still.

Most times, when a man said these words, they were but an expression. But the halting way with which Jorah admitted his desire, the embers in his eyes, and his hand opening on the slope underneath her Venus dimples… Oh! _He_ meant it: her golden beast would ravish her if given the chance!

Daenerys took her time savoring the moment and appraising her man, letting her eyes and her hands survey the whole of his uniformed self. And then she took a chance. Just a taste of danger, breathing close to his lips.

“Won’t you see me home, Lieutenant Colonel Jorah Mormont? Walk me to safety?”

Jorah swallowed hard. Was his Love asking the bear to become the game warden?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here are your own words, giftee -- slightly edited to fit the story: "That muffled voice of the night! Not a whisper and not a day voice. No, Jorah had just enough of a breath out of his heart to rumble, and rise, and fall… with the throbbing of certain words, elongating and deepening the “aaa.” And the pauses! Slicing inside the sentences; mixing with the sounds rising from the depths of his larynx... Ellipsis were etched in his elocution, enabling the rethreading of words to melt one into the other."


	10. Delta Of Venus (Anaïs Nin)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear giftee, the wait is over; the UST a thing of the past. Let go and join our loveys!
> 
> Please note the change in rating. We have ascended to "E". "E" for Emotion, Expression, Exultation.... in a word, EROS.

They were standing at the foot of the spiral staircase leading to her apartment.

“Well, here we are, Professor Mormont. With one staircase left to climb.”

_“Daenerys…”_

Jorah’s hand tightened on the hilt of his sabre; his heart thudding so, it hurt. They had played with fire; they had challenged propriety. And it was delicious. Yet, now, he found himself paralyzed. He was still a married man, and Daenerys was a maiden in the eyes of her new society. If he went up that staircase, he knew... He knew he would endanger her reputation. And he was guilty of _wanting_ that which would endanger her reputation. He wanted _her_. He wanted to _claim her_ and never let her go. But…

“I don’t think…” He stopped and sighed, his broad chest feeling so constraint in his uniform. He looked at her beautiful face, and those eyes that told him that she wanted this between them, that it was fine, that she didn’t care for rules, and to let go. He looked down at his feet, seeing an imaginary line at the foot of the spiral staircase on which she stood: the threshold of _her_. And raising his eyes to his Queen, his voice broke.

“Daenerys, I don’t think I should.”

_Oh, Jorah…_

And so, Daenerys played her wild card.

“All right,” she said lightly. “But you must help me choose my nighttime reading!”

At that, of course, Jorah could not object. It brought him back to their much more innocent games in the Library… though, dear Gods, how in that game he could feel the snares of a trap being set for him.

Relishing Jorah’s relinquishing, Daenerys led the way, and she took them to a section which the Professor had never seen before. Alleys of books behind her office. Whole shelves of them, each binding more luscious than the next, though some had no markings to their spine. Oh, were they… clandestine books? Jorah blinked, unsure, but still he followed Daenerys as she brought them far and deep into a dark row solely lit by moonglow. Until she stopped by a ladder, and turned to him.

“What shall it be then, _The Songs of Bilitis_ by Pierre Louÿs or _Delta of Venus_ by Anaïs Nin?”

Jorah swallowed hard. He knew the first book and opened his mouth to comment but Daenerys was already climbing the ladder, her lovely shimmying bottom right in his field of vision.

 _Pierre Louÿs was_ _a French writer_ —the Professor was telling himself, trying to find his footing again, within his encyclopedic mind.

 _Louÿs was a French writer who had pretended to translate sapphic poems from Ancient Greece and…_ —what was _she_ doing? Lifting her shapely leg to extend herself over the shelf; _oh Gods, Ancient Greece, yes_ … _and Louÿs’ poems were exquisite, but_ _he didn’t know the other book._ _How was that?_

“Oh! Because it won’t be published for many years to come yet,” Daenerys told Jorah, still searching for the books.

_Wait, the Library had Ms Nin’s manuscript, then?_

“You’re right to be intrigued,” she answered him obliquely, though he had not spoken out loud. Her voice was muffled from her rummaging. “I approve your choice. If I’m to read about women pleasuring women, I should read first-hand accounts. _Delta of Venus_ , it shall be!”

Jorah decided he would not worry about the fact that he had not uttered a word and so, how could Daenerys react to his queries? No. He decided, rather, that he would just concentrate on trying to not let the heat emanating from his body make him do something foolish.

Instead, Daenerys took care of that.

Mesmerized, Jorah saw his Love turn to face him. Or rather, she made her thighs and her lovely—aptly named—Venus mound face him.

Daenerys had found the book—and he was losing his senses.

“Jorah?”

 _“Yes…”_ he breathed, peeling his eyes from her lovely sequined body to look up at her face.

“I feel like reading an excerpt right now!” she exclaimed, biting her lip, with a naughty smile.

“By all means,” he heard himself murmur, throwing in the towel. It was one thing for him to read from Byron on stage to woo Daenerys from afar, it was quite another to have her reciprocate, in close proximity. Of course, wasn’t there a saying that went: “All is fair in Love and War”? And he _was_ wearing a military uniform, so…

His smile was not bashful when he looked up at Daenerys again, no. It was the smile of a man in love, admiring the audacity of his Queen.

“Good! Now, let’s see… Oh!” Opening the book, Daenerys rocked the ladder, prompting Jorah to reach out to secure the ramp with one hand, and his Love’s hip with the other.

Oh, she was really very good at this, Jorah smirked.

_They left together and got into the back seat of Leila’s black limousine…_

Daenerys had a lovely reading voice. Jorah found himself captivated from the start and, very soon, almost without wanting to (though he did), his hand began to glide up her leg, in a sensory echo to the caress in her lilt, the sensuality of her tone, and the immodesty of her words.

_Leila leaned over Elena and covered her mouth with her own full lips in one interminable kiss in which Elena nearly lost consciousness._

Daenerys halted for a second, feeling Jorah’s hand push up the helm of her dress. He did it so slowly, stopping when she did, and starting anew when she did too.

_Elena’s mouth fell on Leila’s throat, in the slit of her black dress, which was open between the breasts. She only had to push the silk away with her mouth to feel the beginning of the breasts._

Though Daenerys liked to think she was in control, she really wasn’t, not anymore. Her heart was thumping in her chest. She could feel Jorah’s caress burning her…

_‘Are you going to elude me again?’ asked Leila. Elena pressed her fingers against the silk-covered hips, feeling the richness of the hips, the fullness of the thighs, caressing her. The tantalizing smoothness of the skin and the silk of the dress melted into one another._

… And she almost whimpered when the writer’s next words— _She felt the little prominence of the garter_ —coincided with her Professor’s fingers brushing over the snap of her own sultry garment.

As to Jorah, well, nothing was going to surprise him anymore. Not Daenerys reading his mind, not the synchronicity of their dallying with the Muse’s words, and… _Gods, but she was beautiful!_ Daenerys’ thighs were as full and smooth as Nin’s heroine, and the moonlight gave her silk stockings a silver sheen. A million minuscule stars calling his eyes to them. But it was his mouth he pressed to her flesh, just above the top of her garter. Slowly. Sensually. In reverence.

He heard his Queen’s voice falter again and it sent a rush of blood to his loins. And when she pressed on, so did he.

_She wanted to push open Leila’s knees, right there…_

His lips moving up, tickling his Love with the prickly tease of his gruff, Jorah laid open-mouth kisses on her skin. She kept reading; she did not stop him. And nearing the secret of her, Jorah began to feel emboldened—and intoxicated. Daenerys’ perfume! Those white flowers… It was tuberose! Heady, sultry, almost venomous _Polianthes Tuberosa_ stemming… stemming from her intimate flesh. Daenerys wore no underwear! The trail of his kisses led him to this discovery, and he felt his heart beat in his mouth.

Oh! Daenerys had known from the start. She had prepared for this, this banquet laid out for him. He could smell it, he could taste it now, through her silver curls which she brushed softly over his mouth and nose, her voice quivering.

Losing all sense of propriety, Jorah accused ‘reception of the invitation’ and, lifting Daenerys’ dress higher, his hand curbed one of her legs over his decorated shoulder, to seize the roundness of her rump, and bring her intimate lips to his hungry kiss.

_“Jorah!”_

She felt it: instant pleasure at Jorah’s swiping of her sex; his immodest act searing her mind and chaining her to him. Right away, she began trembling, her body overwhelmed. No one, _no man_ , had ever kissed her like this; kissed her there, so intimately. And it was Jorah, it was her Love, branding her like this, and relishing it. She heard it in his passionate rumble.

Moaning his name, her head thrown back, how could Daenerys not feel triumphant discovering just how eager her Professor was to please her? Or feel her sex contract when she heard him speak again?

“Don’t stop your reading.” His voice so husky, his command so enticing.

Feeling dizzy, on the threshold of this new experience, Daenerys saw herself lift her book again and give herself over to Jorah. On every thrust of his kiss, she sensed the grooves of his decorated shoulder chafing her naked thigh. It made his embrace feel so real, as he pulled on her; the impropriety of their embrace making her slicker and slicker. She read on, her mind trying to latch onto the words while her ears and her flesh were full of her Lover’s ministrations; her Lt. Col., her Knight, her Professor, her feral Bear just feasting on her, to pleasure her. And the more she read, the more she heard and felt Jorah’s arousal too, which then fueled her own, in a forever loop of desire. The words came quicker now, on a faltering rhythm communicating so much more than a borrowed story.

_They entered her darkened apartment, where the blinds were drawn against the summer heat. Leila led Elena by the hand to her bedroom and they fell on the luxuriant bed together. Silk again, silk under the fingers, silk between the legs, silky shoulders, neck, hair. Lips of silk trembling under the fingers._

Silk, like the softness of Jorah’s kiss on the creaminess of her. Oh Gods, she was not going to survive this… her honeyed insides pulsating so, she had to tighten her grip on the leather of the book. Daenerys whimpered as Jorah lunged for a greedier attack, feeling him secure her leg anew, digging his fingers into the flesh of her thigh. Her voice was shaking now.

_It was like the night at the opium den; the caresses lengthened, the suspense was preciously sustained. Each time they approached the orgasm, either Leila or Elena, observing the quickening of the motion, took up the kissing again—a bath of lovemaking, such as one might have in an endless dream, the moisture creating little sounds of rain between the kisses._

Jorah had dreamed so many times of Daenerys’ flesh. He had tasted her in his waking thoughts. And here she was, dancing on his mouth, so offered, so wanton, as he was calling her wetness to him. He would harvest her pleasure and treasure it. He felt it coming, all the way down to his cock, trapped in his hussar uniform, aching for freedom, as much as he was aching for her with his lips, his tongue, and then his finger disclosing the ‘luscious pea inside the pod’.

_Jorah, my love, my Knight, please!_

It felt so good, Daenerys found herself rocking her mound to Jorah’s mouth. Forgetting to read.

“And then, what happened, my darling?”

Jorah, demanding a bedtime story.

“Tell me what Elena and Leila did.”

 _That voice._ Daenerys almost climaxed, right there and then, on those brazen words _._

And Jorah felt it, under his thumb and along his fingers now tightly fitted in her honeyed core. His throat constricted when he sensed the first ripple of pleasure course through Daenerys. Her bliss, the pleasure and love which he had dreamt of gifting his Queen for so very long was at hand. When he bent his head again, he knew she’d be his.

Daenerys _moaned_ then—reading that very word in her book—, the need to scream constricting her throat. Jorah’s final erotic assault was… It was…

_… Leila bit… into the flesh…_

She couldn’t anymore. Daenerys dropped the book to the Library’s floor, to slip her fingers through Jorah’s hair and slam herself to his mouth. She needed release so bad… Anaïs Nin would have to wait. The authoress would understand, would she not?

And so, only the moon read the rest.

_Her tongue between Elena’s legs was like a stabbing, agile and sharp. When the orgasm came, it was so vibrant that it shook their bodies from head to foot._

_“JORAH!”_

Daenerys came and came and came, sobbing, until she felt Jorah’s kiss leave her to come take her mouth, his foot raised on the ladder and his arm sliding her down to his level, his body enfolding all of her _petite_ form. _Gods, he tasted of her,_ Daenerys told herself, Jorah’s lips and gruff sweetly maculated.

“My love, my love…” Jorah couldn’t seem to stop repeating, as he kissed and kissed her tenderly. He meant for these simple words to declare his love, yes, but they were also asking if she was alright, if _this_ was alright, what they had done. He was looking to see if she understood how he worshipped her, how he wished for these caresses to ease… to ease the abuse from her past.

Oh! they did! In so many ways! And they gave her so much more; Daenerys never knowing such pleasure, so much love and such a luminous awakening! She would tell him; he deserved to know. If only she could find her breath. If only the hunger rekindling in her body gave her leave to speak. But, kissing Jorah, pressing herself to him, and sensing his own hunger not assuaged, all she could do was answer him with her body. Gods, how he was hungry. She could tell from the way he crushed her to him, and his kiss, more passionate again, taking her mouth, his tongue conquering hers. She kissed him back, she curled herself on his textured uniform until she felt it again, his manhood, even more formidable than in the Library. It was fully erect under his skin-tight breeches and suffocating there. She just… wanted… to rip the fabric open. Her desire was so violent, it shook her. She _wanted_ him. She ached for the searing that would come with truly feeling Jorah inside her. She whimpered on the thought, on the image and the sensation and, when Jorah did not hold back a thrust, she gasped again, just like she had done, downstairs, downtime. She gasped and her eyes locked on Jorah’s.

 _Oh Gods, she does fear me!_ Jorah thought, aghast, his next words leaving him in a desperate plea: “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, my love…”

He was panting on her lips, his body trying to let her go, yet failing.

“We’ll stop. We don’t need to, I don’t need…”

Shocked, Daenerys held her breath, and then, suddenly realizing what this was all about…

“You are nothing like him,” she blurted out, “you are nothing like my dead husband!”

There; she said it, she called the phantom out of the shadows to annihilate it.

“You love me,” Daenerys added fervently. “You… love me,” she repeated, “And I love you!… And, Ser, hear this,” she breathed out, taking Jorah’s chin in her hand, and snaking her leg up his sabered hip. “I won’t beg,” she said, pressing her core implacably on his indomitable hardness, “a Queen doesn’t beg, she demands… and I demand that you serve me.”

On those words, Jorah’s expression changed from one of concern to one of feral abdication _and_ domination.

Seeing that Jorah would obey her, and guessing his next move, Daenerys grabbed the railing of the ladder above her head with both hands to brace and lift herself. She heard Jorah unhook the front panel of his breeches, and saw him close his eyes for a second, the look of relief on his face making her sex pulse at the very thought of his cock rising free towards her folds. _Jorah please!_

Her Knight pulled on her waist, he lifted her thigh.

“I’ll be gentle.” _He was feverish._ “We’ll go slow.” _He was aching._ “I’ll…”

“No! Not slow, not gentle, Ser Jor-- ughhhh…”

Jorah obeyed his Queen with a celerity and relish betraying his own carnal needs. He took her hard and he took her deep, and all the while he growled words of desire and love on her skin. He was possessing her with all his manly strength and all the love contained in him that had wanted to escape, and spurt forth, for so, so long now. Not just in their Library but for lifetimes, millenniums, and dared he think it? Across worlds and galaxies.

They were beautiful in that dark alley lit by the moon, these eternal lovers finally come together amongst the books they so cherished; the books that had fed their love—the books that had enabled them to express it too.

In months and years to come, the faeries would witness their dallying there many more times, surrounded by literature and hush-hushed words, their lovemaking fierce or tender, feral and courtly, intense or playful. The Library was solely theirs in the depth of night and they prowled it, completely fearless. They honored their love and their realm in this way, blessing their lair with the exultation of their sex. The throes of their passion became the very epitome of desire and poetry. For all eternity, the Library would be haunted by the vision of their bodies, _naked and glowing in the night_ , their skin covered in sweat and quivering with moans, as they made love in the midst of all these volumes and leather bindings and perfumed vellum. Their embraces would be as lustful and decadent as the gold gilding of luxurious editions. Their kisses as soft as the silk of ribbon bookmarks. Their cries of pleasure as sharp as paper cuts and as crisp as the sound which a new book sighs when it creases open. And their carnal vows, so passionate and lasting, they were to rival, by their very existence, the Tales of One Thousand and One Nights!

But _this_ tale having yet to reach its end; Daenerys still had to soar again, in Jorah’s arms, her folds taken over by his beastly cock. Such intense sensations blinding her, and pleasure building and building because she could feel her Knight getting so hard, and harder still. She would die before this was over. And she did: _la petite mort_ seizing her until, throwing her head back, and breaking her word, she did beg. She begged for _Jorah’s_ release through the renewed cresting of her body.

She felt a bite then, Jorah’s bite where her neck met her shoulder blade, and then his licks and kisses on her skin, all the way to the shell of her ear. And then his voice.

“No,” he growled low, thrusting into her, “not before you come for me once more… I want to feel you again, my Queen. Until the night is done. Over, and over again… I need it; I want it!”

There was nothing else she could do but give in. To pleasure, to love, to passion unleashed, finding its way in every secret alcove of her body. Seared and transported, Daenerys relinquished to Jorah’s feral kisses and bites which electrified her skin. Being ravished like this, it felt as if her bear was going to eat her whole—while the hardness of him brushed that secret part of her and his fingers closed on the back of her neck. He wanted their eyes to lock as he took her; he wanted his mouth to feast on her lips. She was going to tumble again, wasn’t she? She would shatter and it would be violent, and delicious, and… _gods_ , when the wave came, her spasms took hold of him. Jorah growled then, louder than before, both victorious and done for. In that instant, Daenerys knew to look into her Knight’s eyes, her fingers slipping through his hair, to tug on his curls, on every pulsation of her pleasure. And she knew to tell him, on the last of his thrusts…

“Right now, Ser Jorah!”

And he obeyed, and she got what she begged for: Jorah’s release, pulsating into her without modesty and reverberating through her very core.

Heaving, they were left clinging to each other, on their ladder, still dressed and yet soaked with sweat, their lips kissing through their panting, haltingly, desperately, groggily, and then in earnest once more, with Jorah rocking his hips into his Queen, gently.

“Jorah…”

“Yes, my love…”

“You’re still… You’re still so hard!”

“I know, I’m sorry…”

“Silly bear,” she smiled on his lips, “take me to my room, and make me yours again!”


	11. Beauty And The Beast (Jeanne-Marie LePrince de Beaumont)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear giftee, because once is not enough, chapter 11 remains rated E.... but chapter 12 will end with "T" because even eternal lovers must rest once in a while!

Jorah did abide his Queen’s order, in her bedroom, eager to be finally freed of his uniform.

Gently settling his Love on her bed, in her dreamy lair, he set about shedding his uniform quicker than a storm, stealing Daenerys’ breath away. She was waiting for him now, kneeling, with her thighs parted over the covers, her sex still aflamed from their Library tryst, famished and trembling. She saw Jorah rid his body of the final layers separating her eyes from his glory and when he joined her, kneeling too and holding back an impulse to take her in his arms, she shivered. She shivered as he pressed his muscled body on hers, his proud cock raised between them. She could sense his desire as she brushed herself on him, scratching his intimate skin with the sequins of her dress. His nostrils flared then, and when she put her hands on him, his lips looked to take hers… but she spoke.

“Who’s this in my bed?” Daenerys whispered, her fingers raking Jorah’s heaving chest, her nails scratching over the tiny pebbles of his pectorals, “the Professor, the Knight, the Lieutenant Colonel or the Bear?”

“It’s all of them, all of them come to claim you, Khaleesi!” he breathed painfully.

Oh! Indeed! And she felt _all_ of Jorah’s incarnations… when both of her graceful hands found and caressed the feral length and girth of his cock.

“Ser Jorah!” she breathed too, but in awe… while he gritted his teeth.

There was a vein pulsating under her fingers, and gorgeous drops of opalescence dripping over them.

Daenerys tasted the liquid pearls, delicately, her tongue lapping over her fingers, and her lips sucking, sensually, with her eyes raised to Jorah. He exhaled then, shakily, and she almost shattered seeing him welcome her immodest act with such relish. She loved how he gave himself over to her caresses… but she was the one to gasp when he lifted her to make her fall with him. He on her pillows, she over him in an invitation to straddle him.

Which Daenerys greeted with a sultry smile, guiding her Knight’s bronze-hard flesh to her, feeling pleasure bolts seizing him, under her hand, as she pulled him from his muscled stomach to the mystery between her opened thighs. Such firmness giving her pause, she had to part her lips to _ouh_ in wonder. It made Jorah rumble dangerously, and Daenerys raise her eyes to him. Until he quivered, once more abandoning himself to her touch when the palm of her open hand glided down in temptation and then up again, her fingers curling round gently.

 _How velvety the skin_ , she thought, _how wonderful_ the new rush of blood engorging his glorious manhood, _how primal_ the twitching and the drumbeat of every pulsation she provoked with her touch, with her glance, with her sighs. Yes, her Knight _lived_ in her hand. It was his heart racing there while he murmured her name in reverence.

Nearing the secret of her, Jorah understood he shouldn’t move, and he didn’t want to, but, when he finally felt the honey from his Khaleesi’s lips kiss the tip of his cock, he bucked up. Just a little, just enough… to hear her moan, and see a flash of ecstasy illuminate her features, her hand free again because he had found his way home, to her folds.

Sensing Jorah’s crown move in and out of her, teasingly— _just that, just that could be called Elysium,_ Daenerys thought. Her secret lips tasted it, to her heart’s content, while drinking Jorah’s rasping of her name as she toyed with him, before setting the rhythm of what would come next. It was she that lowered herself slowly onto her Knight, digging her nails in his contracted abdomen while he closed his fists on the bedsheets, tugging there, her name on his lips like a prayer.

 _Why had they waited so long to love each other?_ Daenerys wondered, her heart beating in her folds.

It felt so good, impaling herself and hearing her own breath pant on Jorah’s breadth. It thrilled her to feel she might not make it, the taking of him, because it was too much, regardless of her creaminess, regardless of his husky words spurring her on. What would happen when she’d reach the end of her Knight? When she’d have all of him in her, for all time? Feeling Jorah like this, Daenerys found herself sighing and wishing the sensation scorched her forever. She turned her moans into those of a Queen wanting, coveting, lusting after that which she demanded. And she wanted it, she wanted Jorah’s manhood, she wanted the look of fierce desire in his eyes, the tightening of his jaw on words half-spoken, and his Adam’s apple bobbing in hunger. She wanted the feel of Jorah’s hands leaving the sheets to hold on tight to her swaying hips, but not to press her down, no, not yet, simply with a suddenness betraying the self-control he _needed_ to stop himself from kissing her mound. It was she that would swallow him whole, that did swallow him whole!

And when she did, she swiveled her hips, to seal their joining, exhaling audibly, and whimpering on Jorah’s deep grunt.

Gods! His crown, pressing up in the very depth of her! She could feel it…

As could he.

Oh indeed. Jorah did feel himself ensconced and pressing up in the very depth of his Queen. He was heaving on the carnal knowledge of it. It seized his mind as much as his flesh. And his soul, blooming, as he grasped the profound meaning of it all—this fiery wedding of theirs, their lusty romantic union! He’d wanted it for such a long time. To feel one with Daenerys, to feel his strength in her, to feel her body make his _hard_ , and just enslave him to hers, stealing his breath, stealing his heart.

“Jorah, undo me. Free me from my tresses and my dress. I want you to see me…”

Her hands roaming Jorah’s chest for support, Daenerys let her Professor card his long fingers through her elaborate braids to set her silky hair free. Relishing the feeling, she opened her mouth to sigh, and she lashed onto his thumb as it brushed too close to her mouth. When she sucked on it briefly, her eyes closed, her face beautifully flushed inside the wildness of her mane, Jorah swore under his breath, and deftly devested his Love of her sequined dress. She smiled into his eyes, drunk on his desire. Feeling Daenerys possess him so tightly, Jorah had to square his jaw to keep pleasure at bay. And then, his suffering went up a notch.

Daenerys only wore a diaphanous chemise underneath her dress. Jorah swallowed hard seeing her breasts push up on the fabric, as her body kept undulating over him in a graceful _S_. But this too was to last, just a bit, just enough.

Stopping his Queen from stripping further, Jorah restrained her arms and made his mouth latch onto her bosom to taste her candy-hard nipples through the last of her veils. It made her whimper, his tongue lashing at her through the fabric, it made her rock him faster, and honey spill from her secret lips.

Oh! There was nothing left on her skin after that! With a wild grunt, Jorah freed his Love of her last garment.

This is how Daenerys found herself totally naked over her Knight, becoming the Goddess she was meant to be, riding her dragon to Valyria.

Being gifted with this vision, Jorah felt each of his senses being singed. His Queen, the song of her over him, the creaminess of her, glistening his shaft as it came and went between her folds, with his hands on her hips guiding her swiftly to him, to make her sigh throaty moans that sounded like pain but for her breathy “yessss”. Daenerys made his blood pulse madly in his cock. Could she feel it?

Such an earthy, lustful embrace the likes Jorah had never experienced… while his Love was reaching for the stars.

_Oh Daenerys!_

His Queen was tasting him with such abandon and delight, Jorah had to close his eyes for a second. If he didn’t brace himself, if he didn’t fight the pleasure coiling so tight at the very base of… He was going to geyser forth. He would, if she didn’t stop. He was going to… He…

In his mind’s eye, Jorah saw himself pull on his Queen, and crush her to him—nay, under him, to take her and ravish her, and growl himself into her; calling Daenerys _his_ , for all times, his Khaleesi, biting her lips and…

Jorah’s fingers dug deeper into Daenerys’ flesh, in her hips, her moans a siren’s call. But when he opened his eyes, panting, he saw his Queen over him, so beautiful, so regal and ecstatic, taking the whole of him while touching herself… Time stopped, and the swell of his desire crashed on other shores than his own.

“Take what you need, my love.”

Oh, his voice! How Daenerys came, just then, suddenly intertwining her hands in his, for support! She moaned his name, feeling her walls pulse and pulse on the length of his sword, the breath of his words.

Finding his Love so wanton, as she slowed her cavalcade on him, Jorah let the fire in his loins whisper mad notions to his flesh. Immodest and amorous, he cradled Daenerys face and pulled on her, needing her lips, until he snaked one of his arms to her waist, to stop her swaying. Stilled, and imprisoned, her sex still contracting, Daenerys peered down into Jorah’s eyes and waited breathlessly for his next move. He smiled and then he started purring low, taking over, thrusting up, but slowly, to spare his Queen’s tender flesh. When he heard her sigh in delight, he took her lips and kissed her deep.

It was a beautiful warfare manoeuvre, a _coup d’état_ that left the Queen pliant in surrender; and her Knight growling on his hardness testing the wetness of her—in her core and her mouth, which he tasted with his tongue, as sweet as his manhood was imperious. Until he broke the kiss and stopped, to make sure.

“You like this, my Queen?”

 _Oh, what naughty tone was this?_ Daenerys could only whimper her acquiescence. It felt so good being taken like this; relinquishing herself to her Knight’s science.

When Daenerys’ thighs began to shake from the waves rising deep from within her, Jorah lovingly flipped her under him. He wanted to hold her close in his arms when she’d come undone again. He needed to enshrine her in his heaving form, to keep her forever. And then whisper words of wild passion on her lips, as he took her. _Gods_ how he needed to… needed to let his thrusts tell her how much he loved her.

And he did. _Oh, how he did._

Looking all at once feral and vulnerable, Jorah warded off the spell of his own climax with shaky breath and quivering sighs, to see his Love come just one more time and one time more. Because this could not end, _never_ , even if… even if, his own pleasure was building and tugging and pleading with him on every thrust.

Daenerys could see it, on his features, she could hear it on his breath, where crazed words of possession became indistinguishable from prayers that growled. Could _he_ be more ravishing? So, she pleaded for _more_ and _deeper._ To make Jorah yield, and to make him fall with her…

And he looked beautiful abiding; the muscles in his jaw twitching, his eyes smoldering.

Jorah rumbled Daenerys’ name as his large hand lifted one of her thighs, to better penetrate her—oh, he was _so_ going to make her, _his_ ; he would!

Daenerys saw his resolve as he took her, so deeply, making her cry out… but she also saw suffering there, in his eyes, heartbreakingly beautiful in their futile resistance. And so, lovingly, she freed him with a whisper.

“Now take what _you_ need, my love…”

And he did, her words taking him by surprise and triggering his surrender. How glorious Jorah looked to Daenerys as he made her cup runneth over, thrusting one final time into her pleasure, to summon the spill of his own, deep in her folds, deep in her heart.

*

They loved each other like this through the night, in Daenerys’ faerie tale bedroom, Jorah looking like the Beast from Madame Leprince de Beaumont’s wonderful tale. The one which Jean Cocteau, the French poet, would spin into such a beautiful film in years to come.

Of course, Jorah was too large for Daenerys’ bed and too manly for the feminine delicacy of her cocoon; his fur and musky smell almost sacrilegious in her maiden’s room. But she welcomed it, the way Jorah made her lovely furniture tremble and creak, and his masculine bulk throw ominous shadows on the walls as they mated. She was Sleeping Beauty awaken; Little Red Riding Hood seducing the Wolf; Goldilocks taking Daddy Bear to bed; and Cinderella finding a Prince to fit _her_.

It took a while for their passionate lovemaking to become tender and yet—Jorah had so often imagined himself pleasuring his Love in the softest of embrace. But Daenerys seemed made of fire, and he had ached for her so, and for so long, that his kisses and his cock could not hold back. He needed to feel her desperately and she wanted him just as badly.

When they did slow down, breathing through each other lips, in unison, every nerve ending of their bodies acutely aware of every sensation, it only made their cresting more delicious, delightful, delirious.

“Jorah… I’m…”

“Yes, my darling… _Let go_ , I’m here, I’ll hold you while you soar.” And Jorah did as Daenerys arched her back while embracing ecstasy, in the first rosy sunrays of dawn.

“I love you… I love you so, Daenerys.”


	12. Leaves of Grass (Walt Whitman)

In the weeks and in the months to come, there would be many a night, when a Knight visited his Queen’s tower to ravish her in a bed made too small for their passion, yet perfect to never lose each other.

The French have a word to describe the coiling of forms, the action to curl up to one another: _lové._ Such a beautiful refraction from the English! Daenerys loved to _love_ herself into Jorah’s warm body during winter nights. She would lose herself in his fur, her cheek to his beating heart, smiling, with her _petite_ form completely ensconced inside the strong arms of her Beast. In the heat of summer, when it seemed too hot for passion, Jorah would sprinkle fresh kisses on Daenerys’ shoulders and back—because, how could he not?—his gruff tickling her awake, his lips cool, until they were not. They would then unfurl what he had set in motion, slipping inside Daenerys’ sumptuous bathroom, to bathe in refreshing waters made for undines and swimming bears. Because the Queen did, after all, have more than a washbasin in her faerie tale lair.

Every night spent together was worth a lifetime. They knew this. And they would make it last.

“Sleep, my darling, I won’t disappear. I’ll be there when you wake, I’ll love you in slumber. Do you see? I am not sleeping—I am dreaming.” Jorah, forever the poet.

She loved him so! Where had he been all of her life, this perfect Knight? Had he been waiting in one of her books? Had she willed him into existence when she stepped through the red doors of her Library?… And had he? Birthed her into existence, like Botticelli’s Venus?

 _And, if so, what of it?_ she thought, smiling.

Daenerys felt blessed, the recipient of some rewriting of Orpheus’ myth, where Jorah did come for her, to save her from Hades and close the Underworld’s doors behind them, erasing her nightmarish past. Forever. Her heartbeat began and ended where his tugged at hers. Her smile bathed in the blue pools of his eyes, endlessly azure. Her sighs curled around his voice, whispering words of love, and passion. She would never tire of them. She would never again know how to breathe without them. There were times when she looked at him, in the middle of the night and…

 _Oh Jorah!_ Caressing his face, Daenerys would peer into her Knight’s eyes, fighting the sleep faeries until she succumbed, letting go just as she felt Jorah’s kisses bless her anew. And, always, he kept his promise. He never vanished. He never disappeared. He loved her in dreams and slumber. And he was there, always, when she’d open her eyes.

Therefore, how difficult it was, during the day, to play at being proper and polite colleagues. But how delicious too!

Of course, they didn’t really have to play like this anymore. Not since the Dowager Countess had pulled a few strings, her powerful circle reaching wide, to provide Jorah with legal papers stating that he was now a free man. No, Daenerys and Jorah could have courted openly but… where would have been the romance in that?

This said, they didn’t fool anyone. Not Jorah’s students who, for the most part, thought them endearing, when they were not jealous. Not Jorah’s landlady who despaired of her lodger’s more and more fantastical and convoluted excuses to explain his nightly absences. And certainly not Septa Unella who, unlike Missandei, Daenerys’ charming new assistant, never missed an opportunity to embarrass Jorah when he came courting the Head Librarian.

“Good day to you,” Jorah would whisper, at the counter, “I’ve come to spirit your Mistress away—for lunch.”

Unella’s total lack of reaction would inevitably make Jorah feel uncomfortable, and he’d feel compelled to add: “Isn’t it twelve o’clock?”

“Well, Professor,” she’d exclaim, rather loudly, making Jorah feel a dozen pair of eyes turning towards them, “As Mercutio would say: ‘Tis no less, I tell you, for the _bawdy_ hand of the dial is now upon the _prick_ of noon.’”

 _Oh dear_ , had Daenerys organized another seminar on Shakespeare’s sexual innuendos?

And, then, there was Dean Lannister. And _no one_ fooled him. The situation with Mormont and _Miz_ Targaryen annoyed him immensely, but not for the reasons one could have imagined. He simply, _really_ hated being put in the position of the one needing to worry about the college’s reputation. When had his life become so respectable, him, the epitome of hedonism?!

At least the Library’s window was repaired, and Tyrion found the new motif stunning. A whimsical, free-flowing Bear and his Maiden Fair, designed by Marc Chagall, a young Russian expatriate nobody knew. His Head Librarian really had a knack for discovering new talents and harnessing them.

It made Jorah very proud too.

Preparing breakfast in Daenerys’ tiny kitchen, he smiled to himself, setting their plates of eggs and toast and tea (always lots and lots of tea) on a tray which, of course, also boasted flowers from their greenhouse, lemon blossoms, this time. Knowing all the college’s secret passages had other advantages than sneaking in to visit his paramour.

Walking back quietly into the bedroom, Jorah sat down gently near Daenerys, so as not to wake her but—to no avail. She opened her eyes, the love in her gaze illuminating her features as soon as she saw her _chevalier servant_.

“Good morning, _Professor_ ,” she whispered… her head on their pillows, in the sunlight, smiling. His vision! The first vision he had had of her. _Oh…_

“ _Daenerys_ …” His eyes misting over, Jorah bent down towards his Queen, to kiss her softly.

“What’s this, my love?” she wondered, seeing how moved he was suddenly. But Jorah just shook his head, too embarrassed by his own gushing happiness to tell her. He had to busy himself with the breakfast tray. She laughed softly then, at him, and lifted herself to steal another kiss.

“Do you know, Ser Jorah, how terribly, terribly happy you make me too?”

He sighed and smirked, smitten. “I can never have any secrets from you.”

“Indeed!” she exclaimed joyously, biting into her toast. “But!” she added, “Are you ready for our big day?”

Hou, _their big day_. Yes, butterflies ran amok in Jorah’s stomach at the thought. He made a face, opening his eyes wide and shivering all over. Daenerys laughed in earnest, struggling to swallow her bite and then, she leaned towards her Love, to caress his gruff and run her hand through his ginger hair.

“There’s still time to change your mind, you know,” Daenerys whispered, taking his marmalade lips and licking them sweetly.

As if. As if he’d _ever_ want to back down from pledging himself to her. And to make it perfectly clear, Jorah slipped his large hand through Daenerys’ mane, his fingers cradling the back of her head, and he pulled her possessively to his lips, for a proper kiss.

They ate their breakfast cold. It was to become a tradition.

**

The music came to a stop and Jorah looked at Daenerys. How proud he stood and how absolutely angelic she looked in her white dress. Both turning to face ahead; they took a deep breath and let the proceedings begin.

In his most beautiful baritone, Jorah spoke first.

“Walt Whitman was an American Poet…”

They were not in church or, rather, they were in theirs, a wide proscenium arched auditorium filled to the brim with students but also dignitaries, come to inaugurate the Mormont and Targaryen Hall of Poetry; the Dowager Countess cutting the red ribbon herself, in front of the glass casing containing the _Songs and Histories from t_ _he Seven Kingdoms,_ its volumes restored. Daenerys’ clout and Jorah’s shining reputation had enabled the college to grow exponentially. Lifting his eyes from his pulpit to the rafters, where more students were huddled, Professor Mormont let his voice boom.

“An American poet who, on the eve of the 20th Century projected us into the 21st, and all of the following years to come, heralding Democracy, championing simple working men and women and, most precious of all, singing _the body electric_. I give you, ladies and gentlemen, _Leaves of Grass_ and… _A Woman Waits for Me_.”

Looks were exchanged, a few murmurs of expectation too, and Jorah’s favorite students held their breaths.

_A woman waits for me,_ Jorah began. _She contains all, nothing is lacking,  
Yet all were lacking if sex were lacking, or if the moisture of the right man were lacking._

A _frisson_ coursed through the audience, but Jorah forged on without pause. The next passage was a long enumeration of audacious descriptions; short one-syllable words, then mostly two-syllable words, and so on, words whose utterance always made his pulse beat faster when he read them out loud. Like in a crescendo, like in an amorous crescendo… one Daenerys knew very well, and she smiled to Jorah as he dived into his performance, her lips parting as he did. Oh! She gave him wings and she made desire coil in his loins. His voice bit into every word and he made them thunder seductively over the assembly.

_Sex contains all, bodies, souls,  
Meanings, proofs, purities, delicacies, results, promulgations,  
Songs, commands, health, pride, the maternal mystery, the seminal milk,  
All hopes, benefactions, bestowals, all the passions, loves, beauties, delights of the earth,  
All the governments, judges, gods, follow’d persons of the earth,  
These are contain’d in sex as parts of itself and justifications of itself._

In the stunned silence, Daenerys took Jorah’s relay with assurance and flourish.

_Without shame the man I like knows and avows the deliciousness of his sex,_

_Without shame the woman I like knows and avows hers._

Gasps greeted her words of emancipation and she smirked, not with contempt but with pansexual bravura, and she continued, her voice laced with pride, usurping the words of a man to speak as a man but also as a woman—desiring.

_Now I will dismiss myself from impassive women,  
I will go stay with her who waits for me, and with those women that are warm-blooded and sufficient for me,  
I see that they understand me and do not deny me,  
I see that they are worthy of me, I will be the robust husband of those women.  
I draw you close to me, you women,_

Oh! the auditorium was now in such a state, you would have thought it to be a kettle on the stove about to whistle. The din rising, and covering Daenerys’ voice, Jorah jumped in, using his strength to further the poem. And using his thespian skills to make everyone feel called upon and connected. His students, especially: the Starks, the Greyjoys, the Sands and Tyrells, descendants all of the Seven Kingdoms.

_I cannot let you go, I would do you good,  
I am for you, and you are for me, not only for our own sake, but for others’ sakes,  
Envelop’d in you sleep greater heroes and bards,  
They refuse to awake at the touch of any man but me._

And it worked. Patrons and students shushing the rowdier members of the audience, Jorah was able to continue but he now walked towards the center of the stage, reciting directly to Daenerys… his enacting of Whitman’s metaphorical wordsmanship mesmerizing.

_It is I, you women, I make my way,  
I am stern, acrid, large, undissuadable, but I love you,  
I do not hurt you any more than is necessary for you,  
I pour the stuff to start sons and daughters fit for these States, I press with slow rude muscle,  
I brace myself effectually, I listen to no entreaties,  
I dare not withdraw till I deposit what has so long accumulated within me._

Daenerys heard the raucous start anew, but she was fearless. She too walked towards the center of the stage, picking up where Jorah left off, seducing many with her audacious stance, and moving others with the immensity of what she proclaimed. Seeing her, Ser Barristan blinked back tears, so proud of seeing how His Grace had prevailed through so much to finally find herself so self-possessed.

_Through you I drain the pent-up rivers of myself,  
In you I wrap a thousand onward years,  
On you I graft the grafts of the best-beloved of me and America,  
The drops I distil upon you shall grow fierce and athletic girls, new artists, musicians, and singers,  
The babes I beget upon you are to beget babes in their turn,_

Jorah smiled into Daenerys’ eyes, as she stopped next to him, and raised her hand to his chest. He put his own over hers, over his heart, and smiled into her violet glance. They paused then before speaking one line each, in an amorous dialogue blooming forth—Jorah speaking first, Daenerys closing.

_I shall demand perfect men and women out of my love-spendings,  
I shall expect them to interpenetrate with others, as I and you interpenetrate now,  
I shall count on the fruits of the gushing showers of them, as I count on the fruits of the gushing showers I give now,  
I shall look for loving crops from the birth, life, death, immortality, I plant so lovingly now._

Lost in each other, Daenerys and Jorah did not hear the applause _and_ the uproar, they did not see patrons coming to words, coming to blows, some of them fighting in the aisles, others shouting “bravo, bravissima”. They did not see Dean Lannister turning white nor the Dowager Countess Violet Olenna Crawley Tyrell of Grantham and Highgarden smile triumphantly.

But as they moved even closer to one another, Jorah taking Daenerys’ hands into his, his enamored eyes looking down into hers, and hers looking up into his, only _they_ heard their utterance of the sacred words.

_Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger.  
I am hers and she is mine.  
I am his and he is mine.  
From this day, until the end of my days._

_***_

**AFTERWORD**

_We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for._

**Dead Poets Society (1989)** Dir. Peter Weir


	13. The visuals inspired by and inspired from!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am lucky enough to have friends who graciously conceived moodboards for this fiction and I though I'd create a final chapter to showcase them! 
> 
> Allll my love and admiration goes to Chryssadirewolf, who did the first panel, and Itszulasworld who did the next three. I provided the fourth but my giftee, Terisrog, also rewarded me, and she did by creating a make-believe Penguin Classics cover (!!!!) with a photograph I took of the real-life library which has inspired the locale of my fiction. Her illustration now opens Chapter 1 but I paste it here anew for those who read the fiction during the Equinox Exchange and do not wish to rethread their steps.
> 
> In closing, you will find other original photographs I took of buildings near me which I cherish and which have indeed provided much inspiration for In a Library With Red Doors. Enjoy and THANK YOU EVERYONE !!!!!!


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